


Get Famous

by thepointoftheneedle



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Handcuffs, Light Dom/sub, Music, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26750842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepointoftheneedle/pseuds/thepointoftheneedle
Summary: This is an out and out songfic.  The Mountain Goats have a new single "Get Famous."  This fic was entirely inspired by that song.  It's central to the last chapter.  The story makes sense without it but give yourself a treat and have a listen. Archie and Jughead are Eldervair.  They've signed a new record deal and Betty is their A&R.  They encounter some business difficulties and some personal challenges but that's how art is made, right?
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 157
Kudos: 124
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	1. Shine Like A Cursed Star

_What’s the difference between a drummer and a savings bond?_  
_One of them’ll mature and make money._

Betty was at the hotel punctually at ten but she was under no illusions. Musicians could be placed on a spectrum between rudely late and oblivious to the concept of time so she had brought her copy of ‘The Sarah Book’ even though she knew she’d have trouble putting it down when the clients finally rocked up, no doubt hungover and bleary. Surprisingly she had only just found her page and settled down with her glass of Evian when one of them arrived. She had never met either member of Eldervair but after six years in A&R she could spot a muso at a hundred paces. This one was tall and slender with longish dark hair falling into his eyes, black jeans and a leather jacket over a faded band t shirt. There was something attractive in the way he moved, a kind of care, a presence. As he approached she realised it wasn’t just a band t, it was the crew shirt for Nirvana’s In Utero tour. Either this guy had a private income and an expensive e-bay habit or he was pretty well connected; the shirts were rare as a stick of deodorant in a drummer’s bathroom. Her internal voice, which sounded disconcertingly like her mother at times, mocked her inside her own brain. “Uhh-ohh Elizabeth. He’s trouble.” Her internal voice was an unmitigated pain in the ass.

“Hi, are you with the band?” she asked as he moved through the lounge, almost passing her by. He turned round abruptly, surprised, and stared at her as if one of the coffee table flower arrangements had just spoken to him. “Andrews or Jones?” she persisted.

He seemed to telescope into the armchair opposite her, knees high, elbows jutting, back slouched against the chair like a stick of wilting celery in yesterday’s Bloody Mary glass. “Jones. I’m Jughead Jones.” he said, his voice low and self effacing.

So he was the one that was going to be a problem according to her boss. He didn’t seem difficult but appearances could be deceptive. No-one would know to look at her that she had once sucker punched a police captain, knocking him out in a precinct locker room. But she definitely had. Jughead Jones then. “Well we might need to rethink that. High school girls don’t want posters on their walls of guys called Jug-Head.”

He let out an explosive laugh that made her jump and slosh her water over her leg. “High school girls? They aren’t going to have any interest in me. I’m the drummer.” She was a little disappointed, she’d responded to his quiet timeliness, might have actually liked him, but drummers were literally the worst. He noticed her spilled drink, “Shit was that my fault? I’ll get you another. What is it? Vodka?”

“At ten in the morning? At work? No, water. It’s fine, thanks anyway. You have something if you want.” He was looking at her intently; his eyes were very blue, she noticed. 

He gestured a waiter over, “Two glasses of water please. Whatever kind that was. Thanks so much. Could you bring a towel too please? I was clumsy. Sorry.” He was very polite. Musicians didn’t always have nice manners. It jarred a little with the leather and denim. Perhaps he was trying to reel her in.

“Are you an alcoholic?” she asked bluntly as the water was fetched. It was her job to know which of her clients she had to keep away from the booze and who needed to be kept off the nose candy or the pills. Even worse were the ones whose dressing rooms you had to stand outside of, ID-ing girls, sending the fourteen year olds home to mommy before the band got their filthy paws on them.

“No, I mean I guess I could be one, but I’ve just never drunk. I don’t like what it does to people, who it makes them,” he shrugged as if a clean, attractive, teetotal drummer was the kind of person one met every day of the week.

“What are your vices then?” she asked, giving him the refreshing directness that was her stock in trade. “Girls, boys, gambling, blow? I have to warn you, I won’t work with you if you do H. Seriously I can’t do that anymore.” Things had gotten dangerously out of hand when The Hospital Bombers’ lead singer had succumbed to that junk. She’d been out cruising the streets trying to find him before he OD-ed or got himself murdered by dealers — she had vowed there and then that she would never risk her life or her sanity again by taking on anyone so ridden by demons.

“Jesus, no. Archie smokes a little grass now and then, I just use nicotine and ride a motorcycle, maybe too fast. That’s it. We aren’t dumb teenagers that you’re going to need to mother. We’re grown men.” He was a little offended. She liked the independence but she doubted that they would live up to that declaration. Bands never did. Still she wasn’t going to fight him at their first meeting.

“OK, so speaking of your partner, where is he?”

“Oh, Archie doesn’t get involved in the business side. He leaves that to me. He’s the frontman, lets me hide out at the back of the stage, stay quiet in interviews, ignore the crowd shoving Sharpies in our faces at the stage door. Girls want him to sign their…chests,” he shuddered. Interesting. “He handles that and I do this stuff. Industry stuff.” He gestured between them vaguely.

“And what about royalties and revenues? Songwriting credits?” She’d been told by her boss that Andrews was the talent, the songwriter, the born performer. She wondered how that worked out financially.

“He’s music and I’m lyrics so everything is fifty/fifty. All the credits are Andrews and Jones. Down the middle. But we don’t live big anyway. We’re on the road all the time, he drives a beat up truck, I have my bike. Our gear’s at his dad’s old place back home. His late dad I should say I guess. Anyway a couple of burgers, a good supply of coffee, somewhere dry to lay down at the end of the day and we’re good.”

She really couldn’t make him out. He didn’t seem to take the business of pleasure as seriously as the other musicians she had met. She might say he didn’t seem to enjoy it. He was a remarkably attractive man with a kind of mysterious sensuality that drew her to him but he didn’t seem interested in casual sex with the groupies who must have thrown themselves at him. What was in this for him she wondered. What the hell was in it for her?

Betty Cooper had a reputation as a tough operator. She had come to A&R after a career change. After college, majoring in criminal psychology, she had become an idealistic young police officer, had hoped to become a detective and put bad guys in jail, protecting and serving. She soon found that her job was less about identifying criminals and more about arresting the same guys over and over regardless of guilt or innocence. There were folks they were expected to arrest and folks they didn’t touch. Stealing a cellphone or dealing drugs could get you shot, extorting millions of dollars was positively lauded, got you elected. When officers overstepped their authority or committed acts of violence their colleagues were expected to protect their buddies not the public. Then she found out that her partner had accepted bribes to frame a suspect. The guy hanged himself in lock up and Betty knew she couldn’t toe the line. So she went to Internal Affairs and then she testified. And she was done and done. No-one would work with her after that. She had a reputation as a snitch. There was a confrontation that resulted in her being given a choice. Resign or get dismissed. She handed in her badge and her gun and walked away.

Unfortunately she had rent to pay and she needed a job, any job. At the time her college pal Veronica had been dating a music producer and waste of human flesh called Nick. He was a terrible human but he was prepared to call in a favour to get Betty a pretty miserable position as a runner and general dogsbody at a record label. Betty had no idea how Veronica had been required to show her gratitude for that favour. She tried not to think about it. Anyway Nick didn’t last much longer in Veronica’s bed or even her consciousness but Betty was impressive in the job. She liked music well enough but she wasn’t overawed by musicians or inclined to be a sycophant who let them walk over her. Her boss, Ricky, aka “The Rickster”, was soon asking her to take on duties that should have fallen to senior A&Rs because she got the job done. She worked her way up through the ranks by dint of energy and a no nonsense attitude. Her police training made her unshockable, her intelligence meant that musicians couldn’t manipulate her and her courage meant they couldn’t intimidate her. She earned good money, owned a tiny apartment in Gramercy that was like a kingdom to her, over which she reigned in splendid isolation, and considered herself a pretty big success after a rocky start.

Ricky, “call me the Rickmeister,” had pulled her into his office the previous Friday when she got back from babysitting a boy band as they squabbled and wrestled their way to a first and, it was devoutly to be hoped, final album. Vultan, the Vults as precisely no-one called them, had headed off to Cabo or Ibiza or Kos for their two months of R&R and she’d headed back to the office. Now Rick, “Dick” as she thought of him, wanted her to forgo her own two week break to arrange and then accompany Eldervair on a month long bicoastal tour. “They’ve just signed to us from a tiny label that couldn’t support them, didn’t have the infrastructure to get them where they’re going. Make Andrews see how good it is to have a label that backs him properly.”

“And the other one? Jones is it?”

“Yeah, ideally cut him loose. He isn’t bringing anything to the party. He’s an adequate drummer but he’s a total downer in terms of publicity and press. The other guy, Andrews, is a natural front man, takes his shirt off whenever the opportunity arises and often when it doesn’t, drives the fangirls crazy. He’s a pretty good musician, he’s the songwriter and he’s fun for the tv shows to interview. He’ll tell them about his tatts or eat hot sauce, whatever shit they want. He doesn’t need the other guy. I think they grew up together so I guess he’s trying to throw his pal a bone but let’s everyone grow the fuck up and move on. Amicable divorce. Pay him off if needs be. Ok?” Betty shrugged with a purse of her lips in her “whatever” expression. The line up of a band whose music she’d never even heard was of very little concern to her. If Andrews could be big as a solo artist she imagined his friend would probably be glad to let him go. If he tried to hold on then he wasn’t really a buddy and the sexy songwriter would be better off without him.

Over the weekend, while she was waiting for laundry, while she ran her customary eight miles, while she cooked for the week ahead and put the individual trays of salmon or chicken with veggies into the freezer she listened to some of the music. It was melodically a little bland and unsophisticated but the lyrics seemed fresh and interesting. That was the extent of her research because Saturday evening dinner became a Veronica Lodge style cocktail extravaganza which bled into a Sunday brunch production which somehow became a Sunday night movie-a-thon. She’d fallen into her bed at eleven, slept soundly and woke up well rested and prepared to stun Eldervair with her superpower, her unrivalled competency.

Now, as she sat across from Jones, drinking overpriced H2O and trying to get his measure, she wondered if everything was quite as straightforward as Ricky had portrayed it. The guy seemed bright, he was responsible for the lyrics which was the only thing about the music that had resonated with her, and he was what Veronica would have called “a yummy snacc.” Betty was normally pretty immune to a hot guy. She had become jaded by her association with men that were considered sex gods by the women in the peanut gallery, the magazine buyers and the gossip site stalkers. Those men turned out to be smelly, ignorant, farting sexists in the flesh and the gilt of their allure tarnished in the fetid air of the tour bus pretty damn fast. She had boyfriends obviously but never in the industry and rarely men who were objectively sexy. She didn’t want the challenge or the stress of trying to live up to a nine or a ten when she considered herself a seven, scrubbed up an eight maybe. Men like that were hard work. All that depilation, the constant reapplication of mascara, no sweats, no messy bun for round the apartment, no comfy underwear, no leggings ever. She’d prefer someone a little thick around the middle, someone whose hairline was beginning to retreat, someone grateful, certainly not this clean Jim Morrison type. 

Jones was explaining why they had signed with Rick and she was taking the time to check him out. It was a little like being at MOMA. She liked to go on the weekends when she was in the city, stare at a Rothko or a Pollock, taking it in, bathing in its beauty. It never occurred to her to cut it out of its frame, roll it up and take it home. Apart from anything else there would never be space for it in her apartment. That was the spirit in which she looked at Jones. The hair was kind of ridiculous, inky black, poetic curls and waves that fell into his eyes and over his collar, glossy like an oil slick coating unlucky sea birds. Then there were the brows. She’d long ago noticed that a good brow was hard to find. There were the lowering Neanderthal shelves that made you feel like you were on a sightseeing tour of Easter Island, there were thin little wisps that seemed to speak of a lack of resolve, there were the monobrows which clearly stated that a man had such unassailable self belief that he eschewed any concession towards grooming. Jones, however, had great brows, expressive brows, that knitted in careful attention when she spoke and lifted in surprised amusement when she mentioned that she was an ex cop. His eyes were blue, unexpectedly pale against the tan olive of his skin. It was easy to see that he was intelligent, that seemed to shine from their depths. He seemed to need a good night’s rest, there were dark circles under those light eyes despite his refutation of the rocker stereotype. She liked the rest of his face. He was finely chiselled like a sculpture, actually like a sculpture she had seen in Portugal on the European leg of Satan’s Fingers’ world tour, a young man seated on a rock amid ocean waves. Of course that young man had been naked so she couldn’t tell exactly how close the resemblance was. She realised with a start that in some part of her subconscious she was trying to imagine this drummer without his clothes. A drummer! She tried to pull herself together. She was better than this.

She took charge of the conversation and explained that Jones didn’t need to book the hotel rooms for the forthcoming tour, he didn’t need to chase up royalty cheques or pay invoices. She would hire the roadies, if he wanted anyone in particular he just needed to let her have a list and she’d work out contracts. She’d arrange flights, make sure the crew were fed, see to it that insurance policies were up to date. He kept trying to protest. “But I always do that,” he repeated over and over again. 

“Well now I do it. Take a break. Stay in bed, watch movies, take your girlfriend out for dinner,” she insisted.

“Well I don’t have a girlfriend but I could use the time to write. I’ve been working on a novel for about five years and never getting past chapter three. And we could make a start on writing the new album... if you’re sure you’ve got it? Here I’ll give you my personal number. Any problems you can just call me and I’ll step right back in.”

“OK, and you’re playing Arlene's Grocery tonight right? I’ll stop by. Get a feel for it. Can you put my name down on the door?”

“Sure, if you want. It’s new material so it might be rough and ready. Oh fuck it I guess I’d better come clean. Archie’s coming off a pretty brutal break-up a month or so ago. He gets kind of tearful so, just don’t think he’s crazy, or whatever. He’ll get through it but if he starts with the waterworks you’ll have to overlook it. Ok?”

“Ok. Should he be going on? You want me to cancel it?”

“No! Christ no. Folks have paid. He can do it. I’ll be there with him. It’ll be fine. We’ve had it worse. Really much worse. So see you tonight.” He grinned and held out a hand like no rock musician did, ever. “Come back after, I mean if you want, if you don’t have to get home. Oh should I put you down as plus one so you can bring your boyfriend, husband, whatever, shit, girlfriend? It doesn’t matter, I mean it matters to you obviously. I just mean I don’t care who you sleep with. Oh for fuck’s sake shut up Jughead.” She was really laughing now. His scrambling was one of the most endearing things she’d ever witnessed.

“Ok, don’t worry about the plus one. I sleep alone, for your information,” she grinned and he hid his face in his hands as she walked away.

That evening Betty found herself standing in front of her closet staring at the rail in a state of miserable confusion. On the one hand she knew what she would normally pick out for Arlene’s Grocery, jeans, sneakers, a dark top that inebriates could spill beer on without it either showing or mattering. Then on the other hand there was what she wanted to wear, tight pvc pants, low cut white t-shirt, boots. Why the sudden rock chick renaissance? “Christ Cooper. You can’t kid a kidder. He’s a drummer. He’s a drummer that you’re going to get dumped by his bandmate. Not an option.” She put on the standard outfit, tied her hair back in a ponytail and ran out to the subway. As she ran she pulled out the hair elastic and turned her head upside down and finger combed her hair into its natural waves, cursing herself as she did it. 

The Grocery was packed. Even though the gig hadn’t been publicised word had clearly got out and the room was at capacity. The crowd was pretty evenly split which surprised Betty. The way Ricky had sold them to her was as eye candy for teen and twenty something girls, all blue cheese olives in martinis and naked midriffs on the dance floor. Actually there were guys in leather jackets as well as women in pencil skirts, straight from the office. There was an inclusive vibe too. Black kids mingled with older white guys, she spotted a couple of gyaru girls in their sham school uniforms. There were a lot of overgrown emos, the grey roots in their hair not quite covered by the ebony dye, some rock types and even a couple of mohawks were visible by the bar. It felt welcoming.

She ordered a light beer and stood near the back of the room. She was watching the crowd and enjoying the atmosphere when she noticed a girl leaning against the wall with a huge bag at her feet. “You moving apartments?” she asked, with a nod towards the case.

The girl turned to her and smiled shyly. “It’s my sax. My brother’s in the band. Sometimes he lets me hop up on stage at the end of the set. Other times he doesn’t because he’s a dick. Anyway I’ve only hauled it from my dorm on Second. Ten minutes and I’ll be home.”

“Oh hi. I’m Betty. I’m their new A&R.”

“Hey, cool. I thought A&Rs were always seedy old guys. I’m JB. JB Jones.” She picked up her case and moved nearer to Betty. “I’m a senior at NYU, so any tips for soon to be unemployed girl saxophonists about breaking into the business?”

“Why the saxophone? Are there a lot of girls in the brass section?”

“No, hardly any. And it’s wind. Everyone thinks it’s brass but it has a reed so…wind. Our dad was obsessed with music. Didn’t make it himself so he was a roadie for years until…well until he wasn’t. He bought Jug a drum kit when he was six and I got a clarinet and now, years later, here we are.” She grinned and gestured down at the enormous case. “You want another beer?”

“I’ll get them. You’re a student. You are twenty one?” Betty scrutinised JB who laughed.

“Just. You really aren’t like most record company folks are you?”

“I used to be a cop. It kind of sticks,” she smiled.

As she returned with their beers Jughead and Archie were taking to the stage. Jughead looked embarrassed and uncomfortable and slunk to the drum stool without a word. He was dressed entirely in black without even a spotlight on him. He was doing a pretty fine job of being invisible. Archie on the other hand bounded to the front of the stage and started yelling. “Hi Grocery guys. It’s so good to be back. I’m Archie. Over there, hiding behind the drums is my pal Jug. He’s shy, you’ll have to really scream his name if you want to get a smile from him. Wanna try? JUG! JUG! SMILE!” The crowd joined in until the shadow behind the hi-hat made a grimace that seemed to satisfy Archie. “Ok. This is all new material but if you’re good to us and listen and jump around like nice boys and girls we’ll play an old fave at the end. Deal?” The crowd yelled and Archie launched into the first number with a Pete Townshend windmill move. 

They were better live than she had expected. Archie was a born frontman as Ricky had told her; he seemed to glow even on this tiny stage with fewer than 200 in the audience. He was funny and enthusiastic between numbers and, while he didn’t have the most spectacular vocal range, he was able to convey a panorama of emotions, sometimes tender and earnest, sometimes raucous and passionate. And yet despite the charismatic figure strutting at the front of the stage she kept finding her eyes drawn back into the shadows behind him. Jones’ drumming was precise rather than the frenzied syncopation of a performer with any interest in drawing focus. He gave the music a firm floor, a foundation around which Archie could spin and thrash, a safe rhythm to return to again and again, always there, absolute in its tempo. It was subtle, with a reticent, unflashy sophistication. “Your brother’s good, really good,” Betty called to JB over a howling guitar riff.

“Yeah, hardly anyone notices but he’s the fucking wind beneath Archie’s wings. In lots of ways,” she grinned, proud to hear him praised. As she finished the sentence Jughead pulled down his mike and gave a drum roll. 

‘Hey folks. My little sister’s here. You wanna meet her?” The crowd was high on the music and a number of other things so they whooped excitedly. 

“Looks like I’m up,” JB grinned. “See you after?”

Betty nodded as JB pushed through to the stage with her case. Archie held out a hand and pulled her up onto the stage like she was as light as thistledown, kissing her on the cheek as he set her on her feet. A couple of guys at the front passed up the case. Within a couple of minutes she had the sax out and was playing a jazzy riff around her brother’s drumming. Soon Betty recognised one of the songs she had listened to in the laundry room at the weekend, a song about never quite making it big, about disappointment turning bitter and angry. She was struck by a line in the lyric, “Did you buy my guitar to give me a chance or were you praying I’d fail too?” Given what JB had told her it seemed like Jones wrote autobiographically. She’d listen more carefully next time.

After a couple of encores Eldervair left the stage. Betty almost hightailed it out and got a cab but she’d told JB she was going to stick around and the girl was good, a real talent. It didn’t hurt that she was pretty, with an edgy, post punk vibe that would sell. Betty could give her a couple of numbers, maybe get her into rooms with execs who wouldn’t have considered her. She wanted to help, to use her powers for good. So she went back. 

Archie was slumped, apparently exhausted, on a dirty couch while Jughead and JB were opening a huge bag from a burger joint across the street and appeared to be about to climb in. “Hey guys, great set. Well done. I had a good time,” she smiled as she entered the door. “Hi Archie. I’m Betty. The record label assigned me to help you out with tour stuff. Good to meet you.”

Archie looked up at her, his eyes suddenly and alarmingly filled with tears. “Josie had an A&R called Betty.”

“Josie McCoy? Yeah, that was me. I was with the Pussycats right up until their contract expired and they went to Universal.” Betty was confused as to why this was a cause for tears.

“She loved you. She always said you were the best A&R they ever had. And that you baked great cookies. Epic cookies,” he was sobbing now and Betty looked around for help. Jughead was beside his pal within a moment, holding a half eaten burger in his right hand and an untouched one in his left. “Hey man,” Archie gasped through his tears, “No, thanks though. I just can’t face food. Too broken I guess.”

“These are my burgers Arch. Remember the rule, any burger I have touched is my burger. There’s a box from Katz’s for you over there, turkey sandwich just how you like it. Now what’s with the tears?”

“I’m sorry,” Betty whispered, leaning closer to the even more disarranged curls, “Josie McCoy came up in conversation. I used to be her A&R.”

“Oh. I see. Look Arch, it's a small world. You’re bound to hear her name aren’t you? I know it’s tough. But you’ll get through it. We’ve got through all kinds of shit, it’s just more shit. Right?” Archie swept his hand across his eyes and looked up at his friend. “Right. Just more shit. Did you say turkey?” He stood up and swiped the deli box from the table and sat back to do justice to one of the largest sandwiches she’d ever seen.

Betty joined Jughead at the table where he held up a box of fries to her, offering, but she shook her head. “Josie and he were together for a year. She met someone else and kicked him to the curb. He’s taken it pretty hard; he takes everything hard. But he’ll be ok. I’ll take care of him.”

“You do that a lot right?”

“He’s my brother. Closer if anything. My dad wasn’t around much and then my mom took JB to live with our grandparents so his dad took me in. I don’t know what would have become of me if he hadn’t. So me and Archie, well we stuck together. High school bands, rehearsing in his garage at the weekend, our college RA’s hated our guts even after we glued egg cartons to every wall of our dorm.”

“You know that doesn’t actually work, right?” Betty laughed.

“It was kind of a placebo...or a pose. Anyway if it hadn’t been for Archie and his dad I would have been in the system from the time I was eleven. I owe them a lot.”

“Well he seems to need you too. Your dad was a musician right?”

“He was a terrible drummer. Guys always think that the drums are about energy and rage and passion but that’s not it at all. You have to be able to take all that physical energy and discipline it to an absolute meter. It’s about reining it in, about control, about restraint. Anyway those aren’t really FP’s forte so he was a rotten drummer, then he was an unreliable and dangerous roadie and finally he was a drunk in a double wide. And I learned my lesson by watching that. Which is why I have some control issues. Did you get hold of Marty to run lights for us?”

“Done. It’s all in hand Jughead. I promise that if I can’t get the people you want I’ll talk to you before I hire. OK? Although speaking of hiring, you ought to keep JB in the band. She’s great.”

He smiled and looked over at his sister rifling through the bag, finally coming up triumphantly with a bag of onion rings. “She’s the best. I don’t want her on the road though. She’s really good. She could play clarinet in a symphony if she wanted. Have a happy settled life.” 

“Yeah but she’s twenty one. Maybe she should have a happy unsettled life first. You can’t control everything you know.”

“I can really fucking try,” he smiled and pushed his hair back with long strong fingers before turning back to the burgers and shoving JB out of the way with a bony shoulder.


	2. Some Nice Juicy Bone to Chew

_What do you call someone who hangs around with musicians? A drummer._

Not even a fortnight later the whole thing had fallen apart. She blamed herself. It had been hubris. Well hubris and some kind of hormonal perfect storm raging through her whenever she looked at Jones. Now he was going to be dropped from the band, Archie would fall apart without him and she’d probably never be able to make it up to poor bruised Kevin. What a mess.

Managing bookings for the tour had kept Betty pretty busy for the rest of the week after the gig at Arlene’s Grocery. To her consternation she kept picking up her phone and scrolling her contacts until, her finger poised above Jughead’s name, she realised that she was simply looking for an excuse to call him. She was a paragon of efficiency and she really didn’t need a fucking drummer to solve logistical issues for her. She would put the phone down on the desk and keep glancing at it until she put it into her tote bag with her lunch and her gym kit. That still didn’t suffice so, eventually, she locked it in her desk drawer. She was absolutely determined not to call him.

Ricky stopped by her office late on that Friday afternoon, resting his substantial ass on her desk and giving her his signature creepy-clown-at-a-kid’s-birthday-party smile. “You got rid of Jones yet?” he queried.

“Nope.” she replied. For some reason she felt she needed to make a pitch for Jughead. “I actually think he’s a pretty integral part of the package. He’s the lyricist. And he’s a solid drummer, better than solid really. And Andrews is a bit flakey. Jones seems to ground him.” Ricky looked unimpressed.

“Yeah but he’s a personality void. Have you seen the interview clips on YouTube? I can’t sell the band with him glowering away like the grim reaper. Come on Betty, you know the business.” Betty nodded noncommittally as he unshelved his backside and walked away, calling up YouTube on her laptop and searching ‘Eldervair.’ She watched an NME interview. It was kind of a car crash. Jughead looked pissed before the first question was asked and sat, sulking, in silence until he was asked a direct question at which point he made a noise somewhere between a snarl and a groan and looked at Archie until he jumped in with a joke to diffuse the awkwardness. Anyone can have a bad day, thought Betty, scrolling to another interview. If anything this one was worse. Archie seemed a little frantic and manic and Jughead looked lobotomised. He shrugged in response to perfectly innocuous questions like who his drum heroes were and whether he had liked “Whiplash” while Archie didn’t seem able to sit still to answer anything. All the clips were the same. The sullen guy in the videos could not have been more different from the genuine, serious man she had met a few days before. They either needed remedial media training or to copy Slipknot and adopt masked and bizarre personas for press events. Something to work on, she thought.

By the dedicated exercise of her not inconsiderable will she made it til seven thirty on that Friday evening before calling him. He’ll have a date, she told herself. I’ll just say we need to talk about interview techniques. We’ll set something up for next week. I’ll say, “Have a great night,” and he’ll say “I’ll try,” and he’ll go on a date and…well I’m not going to think about that. So she called him and gave him her media training pitch and he mentioned that he and Archie were just ordering in and did she like Lo Mein? She did like Lo Mein. Fifteen minutes later she was in an Uber heading from her office in Lower Manhattan uptown to Hell’s Kitchen to eat Chinese food.

Archie and Jughead had moved into an airbnb in a newly renovated block on W47th while they prepared for the tour. It was clean and minimal with great views. “Someone really let this out to a band? Are they crazy?” She asked, knowing the consequences for her insurance and credit rating of admitting she was in the music industry. She wouldn’t have even tried to lease anything this bougie. 

“I just don’t tell ‘em. I say I’m a writer, quiet, solitary, a hermit. Works every time.” He grinned at her and she felt her insides melting like the Chinese custard buns he’d ordered for dessert.

They ate and watched “Johnny Cash Live from San Quentin,” laughing at Archie’s drooling hero worship of the Man in Black. Betty and Archie eventually pushed away their plates, defeated by Jughead’s ordering frenzy and he emptied the remains of the meal into the yawning chasm of his stomach. “What’s that all about? He ate about four burgers at Arlene’s and now this?” Betty asked Archie, her eyes wide at the sheer capacity of the man, as, finally finished eating, he carried plates into the kitchen.

“Always been the same. And I bet you miscounted. It isn’t a meal unless he’s eaten six burgers. I think, as a kid, there was a time when he was really hungry. I mean hungry like no kid should ever be in this country. I guess his stomach remembers, so now, when he’s got it, he eats it.” Betty was shocked to learn that things had been as bad as that when he was a child. She couldn’t imagine it. Her home had been restrictive and tiresome, the sort of home that reinforced all those unhelpful ways of thinking that turned so easily into neuroses and compulsions, but she’d got out. When her career as a police officer fell apart her mother had told her to come home, move back into a bedroom the colour of Pepto-Bismol and be looked after. That gave her yet more reason to make a success of the record company job. She simply couldn’t go home to be smothered and swaddled all over again, not when she had tasted freedom. But, unlike Jughead, she had never been hungry or neglected or scared. She realised how lucky she’d been.

She heard the sound of water running and, embarrassed at her bad manners, rushed into the kitchen to help clean up. There was a slightly odd moment when she noticed that Jughead had pushed up his sleeves to plunge his arms into the suds and the sight of his forearms seemed to cause her to break out in gooseflesh, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She shrugged her shoulders up to her ears and shook out her arms and the feeling went away, mostly. She grabbed a dish towel but he shook his head. “Hey no, it’s ok. I have kind of a system. Anyway you’re a guest. You can stay and talk to me while I do it though. I mean... if you want to.”

“I do,” she said with a smile and took one of the stools, elbows on the counter, resting her chin on her palm and enjoying the opportunity to look at his back without him seeing. His shoulders were well muscled, not like a body builder or a boxer but strong through use. The drum kit seemed like a pretty good workout because, despite the enormous amounts of food he consumed, he was lithe and sinuous. The system was glassware first, washed in water that was obviously scalding to judge from the clouds of steam. Then he rinsed and dried and put away immediately. No grease in the water, no water marks on the glasses, less chance of breakage. It was how her mother would have done it. When he reached up to put a glass on a high shelf she saw the tendons and veins shifting in his arm, under the tan skin and fine black hair. His shirt lifted a little at the hem and there was a glimpse of a taut stomach with a deep groove running into the low waistband of his jeans. That made her feel sweaty. She should have been ashamed of the thirst but she couldn’t dredge up any negative feelings when she looked at Jones’ body. He was drawing fresh water for silverware now, taking care of this stranger’s property as if it were his own, every movement economical and conscious. He moved like a mindfulness meditation. She realised he’d asked her a question. “Sorry, what was that? Miles away.” 

“I just asked how you want to do this media training nonsense. Archie has a couple of days with his voice coach next week but we could do something towards the weekend if you want.”

“Well, actually…this is awkward but Archie’s kind of fine. It’s you I really need… for the training I mean.”

“Oh, so I’m letting the side down am I? Can’t Archie just do that shit on his own? I hate it so much and I know I make us look bad. I have no small talk and these interviews are all small talk. Or fucking dumb games or shit. I just can’t do it.”

“Ok, calm down. Archie can do the ten things in your pocket or which guitarist looks like which cartoon character type things. But you need to have schtick too. Or stick I guess.” That raised a rueful smile at her over his shoulder. It made her heart pitter a little. “That way you have some safe ground to steer the interview towards. What would you want to talk about?”

“No goddamn personal stuff. I get so pissed when they bring my dad into it. He bought me my first kit and then disappeared before the music shop came to repossess it because he didn’t make the payments. My mom sold her wedding ring and his motorcycle so we could keep it. He made no goddamn contribution. And even if I had a girlfriend I wouldn’t talk about her in Rolling Stone. No-one would ask that shit if I were a surgeon or a bricklayer. Why do they think they have the right to know that?”

“So you’ll be comfortable with the questions that they’d ask a surgeon? How did you know you wanted to be a surgeon? What special skills do you have that make you good at surgery? Who are the best surgeons cutting people up today? That kind of thing.”

“Yeah. I guess so. But I don’t know any of the answers. I just keep time. That’s my job.”

“Like a drum machine? Is that really all you are?”

“Oh that’s the joke isn’t it? What’s the difference between a drummer and a drum machine?” She looked perplexed. “The drum machine won’t borrow a hundred dollars and sleep with your girl. Ba dum tish. Or, alternate punch line, you only have to punch the instructions into the drum machine once.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at the moody expression on his face as he trotted out the jokes told against his kind. “Yeah laugh it up Cooper. They mock us because they can’t do without us. They give us a ten minute drum solo and they fuck off and pee or shoot up or whatever while the drummer’s out there sweating and tearing muscles. It’s like the fucking Roman arena. Those who are about to shred salute you.”

“Right so, tell me who the best drummers are, or were. Whatever.”

“Well Buddy Rich goes without saying. Neil Peart obviously, Cozy Powell, incomparable, Bobby Rondinelli, Tommy Aldridge, Dave Weckl…”

“Right stop. So I saw a clip of an interview where you were asked that exact question and you just shrugged and stared like you had no idea that there even were other drummers. What was that about?”

“I remember it. They’d kept us waiting around for two hours to do this stupid two minute interview, it was the anniversary of the day Archie’s dad passed, he was manic and crazy and I just wanted out of there. I figured the quickest way was to be so boring they let us go. It worked.”

She noticed that he’d mentioned that Archie had lost his dad again. It seemed like a preoccupation of his. Time to explore that later. “Except that clip is following you around now, getting you an unhelpful reputation. Let’s try something else. Who, out of all the drummers you were talking about, is the best? Your favourite.”

“Well I really like Chad Wackerman. He played with Zappa. He’s kind of amazing.”

“Why?”

Jughead pulled his arms out of the suds and gestured towards a laptop that was lying on the counter. “Fire up that thing and get YouTube open. You need to see him in action.”

“You have to put in your password.” she protested.

“Straight no chaser,” he said, “It’s a great Buddy Rich number,” he explained when she raised an eyebrow. It figured. She’d have to look it up when she got home.

She called up a clip of a drum solo and Jug came to stand behind her, leaning over her shoulder and drying his hands on a dish towel. “Oh yeah, this is a good one. He let the clip play for a moment or two and then started to comment as they watched. “Check out that left hi-hat. He’s always got that sucker going, Chakka-da-booka-da. He’s floating between the different subdivisions here. Beautiful smooth transitions. Interweaving those subdivisions. Sixteenth note triplets here. He’s orchestrating those rhythms down the toms so not only does he have an interesting rhythmic sound but this cool melodic shape too.” He was close, she could feel his breath on her neck as he leaned in in rapt attention. She didn’t understand a word he was saying and her vision was getting a little woozy on a heady cocktail of hormones and adrenaline but she very much hoped that this was one of the aforementioned ten minute solos. To her disappointment with a bakka-bakka-tish the solo ended and he stepped away to polish the flatware.

It took her a moment or two to control her heartbeat, chakka-da-booka-da indeed. When she looked up she thought she saw tension in those muscular shoulders that hadn’t been there before. “So, yeah. You could talk about that in interviews, about why you rate Chad whatshisname as a drummer. The subdivisions and all that…Just say that. Umm, I’d better be getting back. I’m just going to call an Uber. Thanks so much for dinner.”

“When shall we do it then?” he asked, back still to her.

“I’m sorry?” Betty wondered what he was suggesting. 

“The media training. Unless that was all I needed.”

“Oh, Monday? Come by the office. Afternoon?”

“Fine. See you then. Have a good night.”

By the next Monday Betty’s lust haze had cleared enough for her to be determined to be professional in her dealings with Jones. Either she would be able to make him an acceptable proposition for Ricky and they would have to maintain a professional working relationship or he would be cast aside and she would never see him again. Either way, taking him to her apartment and keeping him as a sex slave, as she had been fantasising all weekend, was simply not an option. 

She did a pretty good job. He didn’t make it easy. It was as if he knew exactly the pressure points in her facade of indifference and was determined to press against them. He wore a leather jacket, carrying a crash helmet adorned with a Basquiat crown. When he took off the jacket and threw it over a chair in the board room that she had requisitioned for their meeting, the tank top underneath was even more distracting. He had a tattoo on his bicep. A snake wearing a crown. There was a princely theme. 

She’d set up a camera so he could watch back his performance as she asked him some of the standard questions that he could expect. It went surprisingly smoothly given the breathtaking incompetence of his previous performances. She asked about influences and icons and he trotted out the list he had given before. She asked about his drumming style and he began to give a technical answer, talking about open handed playing, a traditional grip rather than a matched grip, straight eight blues…

“Stop. Too much detail Jughead. Good for a specialist publication for drum nerds but not for the mainstream. You can talk about that stuff but maybe have sticks with you and show them the grip. Explain it to them. Demonstrate the rhythm you’re talking about. Go again. So Jughead, tell us about your style as a drummer.”

He started again explaining time signatures by tapping them out on his chest. It was stupidly hot, the tank top flaring so she could clearly see the planes of muscle across his torso and shoulder. She very much wanted to ask him to do the explanation again “But this time let’s try that naked.” She performed her shoulder shrug again to release the tension and managed to get back on track enough to try him with a question about his relationship with Archie. It veered a little into the territory that he had said made him uncomfortable but it was bound to come up so it was necessary.

“We’re brothers. We’re an unmatched pair. We’re like the odd socks you find in the drier and just put on because everything else is dirty and from then on they’re a pair. He tolerates my moods and my silence and I find I can put up with him making a noise and a mess when it makes me crazy if anyone else does it. He’s music and I’m lyrics. He feels it and I think it. He’s heart, I’m mind. He’s a sunny morning and I’m a late night. He wants to be famous and I want to crawl into a hole.”

She grinned at him. “You don’t need training. You just need to open up a little. Just give them a glimpse of that. It’ll be great. You’ll be great. I’m going to set up an interview for next week. I know a guy who writes for Rolling Stone so we’ll get you a page in a couple of weeks to boost tour sales. Ok?”

“I guess. Still hate it though.”

“Hate it all you like. You and your buddy are going to be big stars and have a place in LA with a pool shaped like a guitar that you can drive a Rolls Royce into like it’s 1971.”

“Great. I’ll look forward to that. Not,” said the man who polished silverware with a soft cloth before putting it away.

So, buoyed with a sense of her own invincibility and high on Jones’s pheromones, Betty called Kevin that afternoon. A successful interview with a major publication would prove to Ricky that Jughead was no liability; she needed to move on it quickly. She’d clicked with the journalist when they had met at a now legendary Hospital Bombers press junket ahead of their third and final album. Kevin had been in the room when the bassist had learned that his wife was sleeping with the keyboard player’s girlfriend. Kevin had muttered under his breath that the women had made the only sensible choice and she had sniggered until the fight started. The day ended with her sitting in a dentist’s waiting room while the doctor tried in vain to re-implant two of the bass player’s front teeth while Kevin went and bought them both chicken teriyaki cupbap. Having been through that bonding experience, she though Kev would help her out on this one. She was right.

The interview had gotten off to a bad start. Kevin had an idea that they should meet for the photoshoot at a grimy rock n roll venue where they could present Eldervair as inheritor of a seedy rock tradition, so he suggested Loew’s 46th Street Theatre, the old Brooklyn Rock Palace. It was semi derelict, the auditorium serving as storage for a nearby furniture store. It was atmospheric but Betty knew Jug would hate it, neat freak that he was. He did. The disorder and cognitive dissonance of the incongruous furniture weirded him out. He was tetchy and nervous. The weird atmosphere made Archie even more loopy than normal, he jumped onto the tables and ran across bureaus in exactly the way Kev had promised the owners would definitely not happen. She tried to lighten the mood, telling them the dentist story, Kevin chiming in and both of them giggling at the ridiculousness of the situation. If anything Jug seemed to become even more morose. Nevertheless the pictures looked good as they flashed across the photographer’s laptop screen, the dark, sulking figure at the back of each frame, staring fixedly into the distance and a crazy, dancing redhead, front and centre. 

As the shoot ended Betty came to think that something other than clutter was bothering Jughead but she had no idea what it was. He seemed to be reluctant to engage with her, more sullen than normal. When Kevin began to ask his questions he was back to his awkward, taciturn, gnomic persona. It was as if the training had never taken place. She tapped Kev on the arm and asked if he could ask Archie some questions while she had a private word with her client. Pointing to a far corner of the auditorium she dragged Jughead with her, hissing “What the fuck Jones? You need to do better. What did we say about opening up?”

“I’m not interested in dumb fucking interviews with dumb fucking journos. I’m sorry that I’m not what everyone wants me to be but I can’t be someone else. I’m never going to be like him.” He nodded his head towards Kevin.

Betty was mad now. She was going above and beyond to give him the chance he needed to be a part of a successful venture. She was protecting him from the harsh realities of the business and all he could do was insult her friends. “No, obviously. He has the ability to interact with other humans and isn’t completely up his own ass,” she sniped.

Jughead glared at her angrily and stalked back over to Kevin. “All ok?” Kev asked, looking from Jughead to Betty.

“Perfect. Just clearing up where I stand. Next question?”

Betty didn’t know why Kevin did it. She had given him clear red lines about asking Jughead about personal stuff but he seemed to relish a little mischief. “Your dad was a drummer, right? We called him up for a comment. He said he’d think about it and call back, he must be proud right?”

Jughead paled. “I don’t have contact with my father.” He turned and stared at Betty. He clearly thought she had something to do with this. “Thanks for that Cooper. Close enough to really stick the blade in weren’t you? Fuck this. I’m outta here.” Kevin stood up, he clearly couldn’t read the room. 

Betty felt a sudden wave of panic as Kevin said “Hey man, don’t be like that. Family trauma is popular these days. It can make a difference to sales. Couple of sad insta posts and you’re golden. I can help.” Jughead whirled round, pulled back his fist and launched it at Kevin’s jaw. He had a great deal of upper body strength and Kevin span the full 360 before collapsing to the floor, taking a nightstand, an armoire and a bureau with him. Jug stalked away, slamming the doors behind him, Archie running behind in something close to panic.

It was a great story for Kevin, worth the bruises. He emailed it across to Betty the next afternoon. It was bad for Eldervair, especially bad for Jughead. Kevin related his moody lack of engagement in the shoot, detailed his bland and superficial answers to his questions and then told the story of being punched for daring to suggest that his father would be pleased by his success. It made Jughead sound irrational and unbalanced. The headline was “Eldervair’s Greatest Hit?” alongside a photograph of Kevin’s bruised face. Kevin had copied Ricky into the email as he was expected to as an act of professional courtesy to a label boss whose band he was about to destroy.

Betty braced herself for impact. Within ten minutes Ricky was beckoning her from his office. She had never screwed up an assignment before and she had the same sickening feeling that had flooded her when she was at the heart of the fallout from the testimony that ended her career in law enforcement. She wasn’t sure how she would cope if Rick fired her. The shame might send her running back to her mother. “Betty, Betty, Betty. You’ve screwed the pooch here haven’t you?” he said with a disappointed expression. Betty had no option but to admit that the pupper was indeed fucked. She nodded. “Christ don’t look so mortified. You’re still my best A&R by a mile. Put it the fuck right and we’ll say no more. I know you were trying to be kind but all you’ve achieved is risking both of them sinking without trace rather than cutting the rope on the one that’s already finished. I’m going to make some calls, line up some drummers for Andrews to talk to. Tomorrow ok?”

She didn’t see what options were left to her. If she said no she’d be fired and another A&R would interview drummers with Archie tomorrow. This was happening regardless. She felt tears begin to spring up in her eyes but she was determined not to cry. She wasn’t that woman. “Rick is it ok if I take off now? Tour things to wrangle. Ok?” Rick was gesturing her away before she’d even gotten to the end of the sentence.


	3. Show Everybody Exactly Who You Are

_A kid says to his pop "When I grow up I'm going to be a drummer." His dad says "Well kid, you can't do both you know."_

An hour after leaving the office she was with her best girlfriend Veronica, day drinking in a Midtown bar. She didn’t have any tour arrangements to make. She’d called Veronica at work and asked if lawyers could just take off and get a drink on a Thursday afternoon if their pal was having a meltdown. “Oh amiguita mía, yes. I’m so bored of torts. Come over here and call for me, I know the perfect place!”

The perfect place was apparently a small, dark, deserted cocktail bar and Veronica’s prescription was to line up Tom Collinses as Betty laid out her predicament. “So I had an assignment at work. I was supposed to break up a band. My boss wanted the drummer to vamoose. I fucked it up, the drummer punched out a staff writer at Rolling Stone, there’s going to be this terrible article, Ricky has set up auditions for new drummers and I have to go and tell this guy he’s fired.” 

Fortunately Veronica was both extremely smart and an excellent friend. “Ok. Do I sense more than a professional interest in one of these rockstars? Surely not the drummer? We do still have standards darling. We both know you have some issues with self image but you are, objectively, a goddess and you deserve only the best.”

Betty bit her lip and nodded. She knew better than to argue with Ronnie’s assessment of her appeal. “V, he’s so beautiful. Truly, he’s just gorgeous, so attractive that I don’t even mind him being a drummer. He’s got this terrible history but he just picks himself up and makes it work. And he washes the glassware first. You know I'm a fool for procedures. Oh my God. I’m in such trouble.”

“Who’s the journalist? Is it that dear boy you introduced me to? He’s so sweet.”

“Yeah, it was Kevin. I don’t even know what went wrong. Jughead was off from the start of the interview. It was crazy.”

“Oh darling, he’s a drummer **and** his name is Jug Head? I am yet to be convinced that this affaire de coeur will meet my exacting standards for you. Did you happen to mention that Kevin was gay? Did you introduce him as your gay friend Kevin? Or were you just all gushy and friendly with him?” Veronica had one of her perfect eyebrows raised.

Betty understood slowly, her grasp of Jughead's mindset focusing to Dali-esque clarity, very sharp, completely incomprehensible. “Oh, he might have thought that Kevin was more than a pal. Might he have thought that? Oh God! And then Kevin said something about his dad and he thought that I told him something that I hadn’t. He probably thought it had been pillow talk. And then he got mad. Oh no! It’s all my fault.”

“No. No it absolutely is not your fault that this man went all Raging Bull on poor dear Kevin. That’s his fault, completely. But you want him so I suppose you must have him. Let us plot.”

Two hours later, slightly more relaxed that she would have been without the three cocktails inside her, Betty asked the guy providing lobby service in Jug and Archie’s building to buzz her up. The concierge spoke to Archie and for a nasty moment she thought she might be sent away but then he smiled and led her to the elevator and pressed the button for the seventh floor. “Mr Andrews says that Mr Jones is out, nevertheless he’s delighted to see you. Have a pleasant evening ma'am.”

Archie opened the door looking a little frayed and uncharacteristically anxious. “Hi Betty. Nice to see you. Jug’s not home.”

He was the worst liar she had ever encountered. Even as he said it his eyes flicked quickly to the closed door opposite them. Still, if Jughead wanted to sulk that was his prerogative. “Hi Archie. I’m so sorry about yesterday. The article is going to be bad I’m afraid. Ricky wants you to audition drummers tomorrow. What do you say?”

“What? We have a drummer. Who has two drummers?”

“Tortoise...but no Arch. Ricky wants you to let Jughead go and hire a new drummer. He thinks that’ll minimise the damage. You can say that Jughead’s no longer with the band, that he's left to deal with some personal issues and it won’t hurt the tour. Do you want to do that?” Archie looked completely bewildered.

“No. Of course not. If there’s no Jughead there’s no band. If he goes, I go with him. He’s not just the drummer. He’s half the band. More than half because I’m no fucking use without him. No. No way at all.”

“Ok. Good. Because I have an alternate plan.” Without warning the closed door burst open and Jughead stormed into the room. 

“That was always the scheme wasn’t it? Get rid of the loser weirdo, keep the guy with the star power. That was what you were doing from the start,” he yelled.

“Well if it was, you certainly made it easy. Where the hell do you get off punching my friend in the face when he was only doing the interview as a favour to me? What sort of cro-magnon imbecile does that?” She wouldn’t be cowed by him no matter how mad he got. She took a step towards him to show that he didn’t scare her at all.

“Oh I daresay your boyfriend enjoyed all the TLC you gave him afterwards didn’t he?” He pouted like a sulky little boy who hadn’t got what he wanted for Christmas.

Betty allowed herself a slight smile then because she knew that Veronica had called it. “Oh you absolute dope. Kevin is gay. He’s a pal. Were you jealous or something?”

He obviously couldn’t bear that she had seen through him so easily. She saw him becoming defensive and fidgety. “What? No. Hardly. I was mad because you’d told him about my dad. I told you that in confidence.”

Archie was staring at them now, his eyes like dinner plates. “You told her about FP? You never tell people that stuff. Why did you tell her?” There was an awkward silence while Archie caught up. “Ohhh.” The sound of a penny dropping echoed through the apartment.

Jughead pushed back his hair and thumped Archie’s shoulder. “Oh for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t matter. I’m holding you back man. I’ll pack up. You see the new guys tomorrow. We’re still brothers but you’ll just work with someone else. It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.” Now he had cycled round to playing the martyr. They really needed to get past this. He was beginning to make her angry now. She expected Archie to be mad as well but to her surprise he just slumped onto the couch. 

“I won’t be fine Jug. You know I won’t. It’ll be like last time. And if you aren’t here, I might just get it right when it happens again.” 

Betty felt like she was missing some important part of this story. “You guys need to tell me what’s going on here. And then I’ll tell you how we’re going to put this shit right. OK?” She threw herself onto the couch next to Archie, clearly a woman who was determined to get the full picture.

So they told her. They told her about Archie’s dad Fred first, how he’d been everyone’s anchor, the sheer enormity of his heart tethering everyone like a kite string, allowing them to fly but not to get lost in the clouds. They told her about his encouragement of Archie through all his phases and enthusiasms until he found the thing that stuck, performance. They told her how he’d been at every terrible gig, hefting gear out of seedy nightclubs at three in the morning after a full day of working construction. They told her how he’d seen Jughead, dirty and hungry, realised FP was away more than he was home, and slipped money to Jughead’s mother to feed the kids. When Gladys abandoned her son without a word, Fred had driven over and helped Jug pack his gear and simply taken him home. He’d been the one to read his college applications, to help him apply for financial aid, covering the costs that the scholarships didn’t meet himself. “He was proud of me. He never made any distinction between us. When he drove us up to the dorms he said he was so proud of both his boys.

And then, in senior year, in a pointless, meaningless, random accident he’d been killed on the road. They struggled to get the story out, one of them managing a few words and then stopping, swallowing hard, dashing a hand across his eyes and the other picking up the narrative for a sentence of two. The loss of this man was a still unhealed wound through both of their hearts. With that the string was cut. Jughead seemed to fall to earth, with only the vaguest memory of how it had felt to soar. Archie was flung away buffeted by strong winds, out of control. He looked at Betty, shame in his eyes. “There were drugs, booze. First there were nights I don’t remember and then I lost weeks until finally, one day, I woke up in a hospital in Vegas with Jug sitting by my bed. No idea how I got there.”

“He was in some kind of private club, lots of drugs, lots of women. He’d run up a huge bill, he’d fallen unconscious, choked on his tongue, could have died. They wanted to know they’d get paid if they took him to hospital. I wired them the money and flew out there, went to the hospital. I laid down the law when he came around. It had to stop. It was a kind of slow suicide. I graduated, he didn’t. We dragged the drum kit out of storage where I’d put it after Fred’s funeral because I didn’t feel like playing anymore. We started gigging again and he got better. We both got better. And now I guess that’s over too. Unless you have the fiendish plan that you claim to have.” 

“I do. So you see the drummers tomorrow. You tell Ricky you didn’t click with any of them, that you need a few days to think it over. My best friend Veronica has a cabin upstate. Beautiful, luxurious. I spoke to Kev earlier. He is prepared to spike the article.” Jug’s jaw dropped. “Yeah don’t ask what I had to say to persuade him. In exchange he comes with us to the lake house. We spend the weekend hanging out. You guys write songs, practise, relax. Kevin can go where he wants, ask whatever he likes, no red lines. At the end he can write it exactly as he sees it. He sends the new article to Rick saying, we hope, that you two are the real deal, a new phenomenon and he forgets about his plan to liberate Archie. You in?”

“Of course we’re in. Thanks so much Betty. You’re a superhero.” Archie flung his arms around her and hugged her until she couldn’t breathe. 

“Yeah, that sounds OK. I can’t pretend though. He’ll have to take me as I am,” Jug muttered, holding out his hand to shake like it was the 1950s. She looked at him and took his hand in hers, rubbing across the back of it with her thumb. As she released it she stroked her fingers along his, slowly, watching two patches of hectic colour arise on his cheeks. Veronica’s plan might work yet she smiled, putting her head down so he wouldn’t see her amusement.

They drove upstate the following afternoon. Veronica had googled Eldervair after she met with Betty and texted to say she was coming with, “To get you all cosy and settled. What kind of a host would I be otherwise?” Betty thought, to judge by her skittish tone, that her research had sparked an interest in a certain redhead. Betty texted back that they’d drive up together. She had spent enough time with bands in vans to know that it wasn’t something V should have to endure. Kevin was driving up by himself later that evening, saying “If it all gets too Overlook Hotel and he comes at me with an axe I want to be able to high tail it out of there.” 

Jug and Archie got a rental van to accommodate the full drum kit that Jughead said he simply couldn’t do without, along with assorted guitars and amps. He arranged to pick up Archie on the corner of the block near the rehearsal space Ricky had chosen for auditions once he was done hearing the replacement drummers. They were still arguing and teasing each other about it as they tumbled out of the van outside the Lodge. “No but seriously Jug, there was one guy who was pretty good, like Animal out of the Muppets, who I know was such a huge influence on you. And he wasn’t, y’know, aesthetically challenged like you. I mean girls might actually like him.”

“Oh but Archie, brother, pal, you know your tragically limp ego couldn’t stand anyone else getting any attention even for a second. You’d go crazy and hit the guy with a mike stand. Think of the insurance.” 

The banter led to a wrestling match on the lawn which had Veronica arching an eyebrow in Betty’s direction. “All very ‘Women in Love.’ Sometimes I think seeing that film so young warped my whole sexual development.”

“This is more two labradors in a ball pit than Alan Bates and Oliver Reed on a bearskin rug. It’s too ungainly to be erotic. Oh lord, they’re totally going to hurt each other. We are so not insured for this nonsense." She stepped over, “If you break each other’s collar bones or fracture a finger that’ll be thousands of dollars we’ve spent on the tour down the drain. You want to try being grown ups for a second?”

They looked up at her from the ground where Jug had Archie’s sneaker against his jaw. They stood up, brushing themselves down and looking embarrassed. “Just a little too much energy,” Jug muttered.

“Long drive,” Archie said, looking at the grass stains on his knees.

“You should find more productive ways of working it off,” chirped Veronica stepping forward to join Betty. “Jalapeño margarita anyone?” Jughead looked appalled at the very notion and Betty had drunk enough of them to know he was completely right in that assessment. She made the introductions to cover the awkward silence.

“Guys, this is Veronica Lodge. This is her family’s place. Ronnie this is Jughead and here’s Archie. Together they are Eldervair.” She gave the announcement a Bill and Ted emphasis and noticed Jug smile and then look quickly at his feet to hide it.

“Well, Archie, come with me and I’ll show you to your room. Betty, you can show Jughead everything he’ll want can’t you?” Betty gave Veronica a warning glare but then turned back to Jughead with a smile. 

“We thought you could set up the kit in the morning room. Great views, plenty of space and it’s at the other end of the lodge from the bedrooms so it’ll be less deafening. It’s where the piano already lives so it’ll be a music room. What shall I carry?”

By seven o clock, when Kevin pulled up outside, the morning room was a rehearsal space and everyone had chosen bedrooms. They were drifting into the kitchen to begin to consider dinner options when they heard his car. Veronica ran over to welcome him with a hug and Betty followed, putting her arms round his neck so she could whisper in his ear, “Thanks Kevin. I owe you.”

He smiled and whispered back, “Far be it from me to stand in the way of true love. I hope he’s worth it.”

Jug and Archie were standing awkwardly behind them, shuffling their feet. Eventually Jughead walked over and stood in front of Kevin. He held out a hand and said, “Kevin, look man, I was a total idiot. I’m really sorry. If you want to take a punch I totally understand. Go for it. I completely deserve it.”

“Raincheck on that. I already have a sore jaw, I don’t want to break a hand too. But if there comes a moment when you need to be punched I reserve the right to wail on you. OK?” Kevin grinned and shoulder bumped him, ignoring the outstretched hand.

Jug nodded. “Sure. Thanks for giving us another chance. It’s way cooler than you need to be.” Betty smiled. He actually could be quite personable.

“Oh, I’m not doing it for you. You can show all your gratitude to Betty. She’ll enjoy it more anyway.” Kevin turned to her and winked. Make it more obvious Kev, she thought.

She felt herself flushing and tried to change the subject back to something that would distract Jughead. “So dinner? What shall we do?”

“There’s a sushi place that I think delivers this far out,” suggested Veronica. Betty didn’t even need to look at Jughead to know that wasn’t going to work. Delicacy was not a quality he valued in food. 

She dived in with an alternate suggestion. “There’s a huge grill out on the deck. There’s masses of food in the kitchen. Anyone know how to grill?”

Kevin grinned and raised a hand. My uncles had a “grill the gay away” phase. I have some mad grill skills. Let me meet the meat.”

“That’s what he said,” muttered Veronica as Jughead spluttered and turned his laughter into a cough..

“Miss Lodge! Decorum please,” Kevin responded with a grin and headed to the refrigerator.

Later she saw Jughead standing by Kevin as he turned burgers and steaks on the grill with a kind of blissed-out hero worship on his face. “Man, I misjudged you. You’re an artist, a maestro. This is amazing.”

The Jughead and Kevin bromance was firmly on track when Jug shyly passed his plate back for yet more ribs and Kevin ruffled his hair. “You really are a growing boy aren’t you? I like to see someone enjoy their food. You might actually not be the psychotic bully I’d taken you for.” Jughead smiled at him but Kevin cautioned, “Doesn’t mean you can play the drums. I won’t write you up as a talent if I don’t see it no matter how flattering your reaction to my cooking.”

“Do you play?” Archie interrupted.

“Keys,” said Kevin unexpectedly. “Why? Are we gonna jam?”

“Of course we are. There’s a full drum kit set up, amps that go up to eleven, we’re in the middle of a forest with no neighbours. What else is there to do?”

“Well you could ask Betty about that,” Kevin replied with a smirk causing Betty to jump up before he could embarrass her further.

“Look, I’m going to take care of plates. You crazy kids go and get set up. Music is what we’re here for. Go on, git.”

She’d finished with the glassware when she heard Kevin yell “Ok gang, Whiplash.” He’d obviously decided to channel AJ Simmons to put Jughead through his paces. None of them expected the sound that Jughead produced. It seemed to fill the whole lodge like helium filling a balloon until they floated in rhythm. He started quietly, the tempo and volume gradually picking up. Soon she heard Archie’s guitar join the sound. She went and stood in the doorway to watch as Kevin took his place at the piano and picked up the melody. Jughead was relentless. The tempo would be steady for a chorus and then, as the next began he would set a faster pace, the volume increasing too. She couldn’t follow his movement anymore, he was a vibrant blur behind the kit, it was impossible to tear her eyes away. Kevin pushed back from the piano, unable to match the speed but Archie stayed with him, facing the drums now, eyes fixed on his friend, the strings howling and screaming. Jug was throwing his head back to get the hair out of his eyes and drops of sweat flew from the curls. She could feel the beat in her throat, in her chest, then lower, between her legs. Then gradually he began to decrease the tempo and the volume, chorus after chorus until, eventually there was a sound that made her think of the exhaustion that follows a crying jag or the dawn sky after a thunderstorm passes in the night, a tender sound, a shushing, comforting stroke of fingers across a tear stained cheek, the rustling of sheets as a lover climbs into bed next to you after a fight and turns to hold you tight and murmur apologies and endearments. By the time he stopped, resting the sticks against his thigh and looking around the room, still breathing hard, his shirt soaked with perspiration, she realised that there were tears on her cheek. 

Kevin looked shell shocked. He came over to Betty and said, “You might have something here, girlfriend. I think you might really have something. He could probably drum you to an orgasm.”

Soon Archie joined them, flushed and still panting. “Here’s the thing Betty. I love him, he’s my brother, but if he was mediocre I’d put the music first. As it happens, he is, bar none, the best fucking drummer I have ever heard. None of those guys today were fit to replace his drum heads, not even in the same universe.” Jughead was behind him now, throwing his long arms over his pal’s shoulders, dripping sweat on his neck. “Eugh man, go take a goddamn shower. You stink. That was adequate drumming by the way. You’ve been practising. Usually you suck.”

“Likewise brother. By the way, Betty’s friend has the hots for you. She was watching you like you were the last pair of fancy girl shoes in the store.” Jughead winked at Betty as he said it and she was embarrassed to find herself giggling like a high schooler.

“Well maybe I’ll go and talk to her.”

“Fuck man, don’t do that. What’s that quote? It’s better to be silent and be thought a fool than speak and remove all doubt. Just take off your shirt. That always works. Why are girls so weird about guys’ chests Betts? What’s that all about?” She suspected he was flirting but it was hard to be sure with him. 

She wondered if he’d take off his shirt if she asked him and the thought made her feel lightheaded. She needed to calm the hell down. “Well I’m not. They’re just chests. Some girls just have too many raging hormones. Poor deluded creatures.”

Kevin smirked at her obvious discomfiture. “Oh she’s so superior. Hey Betty, was our deal that I could go anywhere and see anything this weekend?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” she replied, hurriedly clarifying, “Within reason.”

“In the spirit of journalistic enquiry let’s see the chest in question, Mr Andrews. And I guess, so you’re not at a disadvantage, Mr Jones too.”

“No-one wants to see Jug’s chest. Drummers are all scrawny and tendony- ugh,” said Archie pulling off his shirt and turning around before heading off to his room. “I’m going to take a shower so I’m all minty fresh.” He turned and winked at Veronica who actually clutched the piano for support as her knees trembled.

“He’s quite right,” said Jughead as he made to follow him out, “really nothing to see.”

“A deal’s a deal,’ cautioned Kevin in a sing-song voice, touching his fingertips to his bruised face and so, with a huff, Jug pulled his t-shirt over his head as he strode out. 

Betty didn’t get nearly enough time for the careful study she would have liked to make but what she did glimpse made her suddenly understand what all the fuss was about. A lean, wiry torso, smooth long muscles, perfect tan skin, a thin line of dark hair from navel to waistband, a deep cut v either side of a flat belly. She couldn’t help it, she whispered “Oh fuck,” under her breath but just loud enough for him to look back at her over his shoulder just as she licked her lips. She caught his grin even as he turned back to disappear upstairs. 

“You’re blown girl!” Kevin screeched as she threw herself into the couch with her hand over her eyes, the dishes forgotten, hell, she’d forgotten her name.

Betty had a very troubled night. She heard the padding footsteps in the hallway outside her room, wondered if they would stop outside, wondered if there would be a tap at the door. She’d throw on a transparent négligée and pull the door open. From somewhere a lush string orchestration would begin. He’d be leaning against the door jamb, his long forearm resting at an angle against the moulding, his head leaning against it. “May I?” he’d whisper in that low, rumbling voice and she’d nod and step aside. He’d be wearing pyjama pants, low on his hips and she’d kneel and run her tongue down that line of hair beneath his navel, against that V around his belly, she’d use her teeth to pull the cord that held up his pyjama pants and she’d take him in her mouth and he’d moan and hold her hair to control her pace. The fantasy came to an abrupt end when she heard Veronica’s sex giggle. She knew it well; they’d been college roommates. She’d spent many a long evening sitting outside their dorm room, listening to Veronica’s sex giggle, the Hermes silk scarf on the door barring her entry to her own room. Besides she didn’t even own a transparent négligée, let alone have one with her. She had her old Cornell track and field t-shirt with a hole under one arm.

For a moment she considered going along the corridor to his room, offering herself to him, laying on his bed like a starfish, pleading with him to crush her with his body, to hold her arms above her head, to touch her, to make her cry and scream and then to push into her with that relentless rhythm. She knew she could never do that, one of those unhelpful attitudes inherited from her mother who thought a lady would never speak of her desires. A lady would endure half a century of unsatisfactory sex with a selfish, clueless lover rather than humiliate herself by asking him to touch her before he ploughed into her. Being a lady sucked. And not in a good way.


	4. Light Up The Sky Like A Comet

_Q:How is a drum solo like a sneeze?  
A:You know it's coming, but there's nothing you can do about it._

She was out of bed at six, when the creaking of Veronica’s bed springs announced the dawn in a horny aubade. She pulled on her running clothes, laced her sneakers and crept outside, pulling the door closed behind her with a soft click. She loved the trails at the Lodge Lodge. She’d run there many times since her first visit in sophomore year of college. Sunlight slanted between the trees, soft pools of light and then cool shade beneath her. Her feet were silent on last year’s fallen pine needles, she could imagine herself as one of the deer that she saw occasionally, pricked ears and wide eyes, front hooves bent beneath them as they leapt through the undergrowth. The air was still chilled but she could feel a whisper of the day’s heat beginning to breathe through the woods as the birds sang, full throated in the treetops. Her steps set the tempo, her breath matching the rhythm. That gave her the beat for her thoughts to improvise around. She liked the free association that she could achieve on one of these runs. City runs were different, more watchful, more grounded in the here and now. Alone in an early morning forest she could release her imagination to float where it would. Of course it drifted to him. She pictured him in her mind’s eye, behind the drums, dark hair hanging into his eyes, dripping with perspiration, smooth skin, long muscles, absolute, adamantine focus. She wanted Kevin to perceive his clarity, his loyalty, his singleminded sense of purpose; the subtlety and certainty of him. Ricky had thought him dull but really he was like one of those abstract expressionist paintings which were, at first glance, just a black canvas. Then, if you have the patience to really look at them, something happens at the threshold of your perception. It’s such a fine and elusive shift that you aren’t even sure if you’ve seen it or if it’s your imagination. The eye needs time to adjust and then unexpectedly there are so many blacks, a grid of different tinctures. There’s an undercurrent of blue, a nuance of red, a very slight green cast. It’s art of such modesty, no trace of the artist remains, no brush strokes are visible in the moleskin of the paint. That was him and she was trusting Kevin to notice.

She ran for almost an hour, circling back to the house, looking forward to coffee and a hot shower and hoping that the bedroom gymnastics in the next room would have reached their natural climax. As she slowed to a jog she glimpsed a dark figure in a clearing with a view over the lake. She paused and the figure reconciled itself into Jughead Jones, moving slowly and gracefully in a series of stretches. The slowness of the movements made the balance and fluidity of the transitions even more impressive. She knew intellectually what his activity was but it was so incongruous that the discordance was giving her a headache. She crept nearer not wanting to call out and disturb him and too transfixed to walk away. Her confusion turned into clumsiness as she stumbled against a root and had to put out a steadying hand on a tree trunk. The rustling alerted him to her presence and he turned to face her. “Oh fuck. Look it isn’t what it looks like…well actually, I guess it is, but please don’t tell Kevin. He’ll want to bring his photographer back and then I will really never hear the end of it. You have to be a certain type of guy to deal with roadies and sound techs and if they knew…well my life wouldn’t be worth living.”

“I’m struggling,” she said, amusement and surprise battling for supremacy in her mind. “Jughead Jones, in a forest glade, practising his Tai Chi. Is that really what I’m seeing here?” She stepped forward out of the brambles and long grass.

“I know. I do have a sense of my own ridiculousness. It’s just… ok, after a gig or on tour, everything seems to just tighten up, whether it’s muscle strain from overuse or dehydration and crappy food or just too many hours on a tour bus, whatever. Some guys lift weights or box but I just find that stretching it out really helps. And there’s something about the repetition too. It reminds me of those hours practising rudiments in Archie’s garage. You just do it over and over until it’s baked into you. It kind of programmes-in good ways of moving, easing out the neck strain from playing games on my phone when I’m waiting to go on stage or the twinge I always get in my shoulder if I don’t get the kit set up quite right.”

She could tell that he was both entirely committed to this and embarrassed about it. “No, really, I think it’s great. It’s probably good for stress too, kind of like meditation. That’s how I treat running, getting outside, clearing my head, breathing properly.”

“Yeah, when Archie was struggling, I was kind of near the edge myself but I knew I had to be there for him. He needed me not to fall apart. With this, while you’re completely focused on your body, on your movement, there’s no room to be worrying. And it helped so I stuck with it. Everyday. Not always somewhere as beautiful as this though.”

“Show me something,” she said, drawing nearer. 

“Oh I’m no expert. You ought to ask someone good,” he shuffled as he denied the skill which she had already seen demonstrated.

“You look good enough to me,” she protested, only realising when the words were out that they had another implication. She barrelled on, over the awkwardness. “Come on, show me.”

“Well…ok. You start with the bow step. Like this.” He showed her a pose with one foot forward, a bent leading knee and a straight back leg, the foot turned out. She copied him and he tutted under his breath and came towards her, reaching out to correct her.

“Oh don’t,” she cried in alarm.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry. Handsy. Christ. Forgive me.” He shot backwards as if he’d been electrocuted, holding his hands up.

“No, no, it’s not that. I don’t mind you touching me.” Again with the subtext, she thought, cursing her awkwardness. “I’ve been running though. I’m all gross and sweaty.”

“Hey, I’m a drummer remember? I’m not squeamish about a little honest perspiration. The first three rows at a gig always find that out. May I?” She nodded and he reached down to straighten her knee. “Knee always over the toe, pointing the same way. Same with the back foot. And you’re leaning forward a little, here, straight back.” His hands, one in the small of her back, one pushing gently against her belly were hot. She was burning, even with the sweat cooling on her body. There was a moment where they caught each other’s eyes and something passed between them. She would have struggled to explain what it was but it felt like a promise, a recognition, an understanding. He took his hands away and she realised that even in this seemingly everyday position that there was a stretch across her hips and into her thighs. He took up the same stance and then turned out his leading foot and stepped forward into a mirror image of the original position. She copied him and he stepped over and ran his fingers lightly down her spine, murmuring “Straight back.”

“Thanks, I guess this is more challenging than you make it look. What’s your best move?”

“I don’t know if you’re ready for my best move,” he said with a smirk. Two could play at the innuendo game apparently.

“More than ready for it,” she replied, looking directly up into his blue eyes. “Eager for it,” watching the blush rise to his cheeks but refusing to back away. He seemed to engage in some internal struggle for a moment and then, slowly, deliberately, leaned forward and placed his lips against hers with such gentleness that she could barely feel it. It was nowhere near enough and she stepped forward, making her intention clear, reaching a hand up to his jaw and gently pulling his bottom lip between her own. He made a sound somewhere between a groan and a curse and then his hands were at her waist, his mouth moving on her thrillingly, his tongue running along her lips. She could taste coffee on him. He smelled like woodsmoke and cedar and his body was so warm. She placed her hands on his chest, felt his heart beat, strong and regular; it felt like safety. He’d made her quiver with excitement ever since she met him but this kiss already felt familiar, like the moment when she got home and threw her keys into the bowl on the hall table, like the purr of her childhood pet cat when she’d rested her cheek against her side, like standing close to a Rothko colour field painting being pulled into its intoxicating sufficiency. Eventually, breathless, they broke apart, staring at each other. As she returned to herself she was a little alarmed. She wanted more but had rarely experienced the kind of desire that was pulsing in her, had never before been tempted to simply give in to her passions among the bracken ferns of a forest without even the niceties of a conversation about health and protection. If he had laid her back at that moment she would have allowed anything. He didn’t.

“Jeeze, Betty. I might be losing my mind here. That felt like something to me. Does it feel like something to you?” The words didn’t really make sense but she knew what he meant. They stood together contemplating a journey. They could either climb on board this train or let it simply pull out of the station without them, carrying on with the lives they had been living.

“It does. It really does. What now?”

“Look I can’t do that whole, see someone and hop into bed, thing. Not my speed. It takes my brain some time to catch up with…well you know. Can we just take a beat? I need to think about what it means — once I have a blood supply to my brain I mean.” He was holding her hand, looking at her so intently that she could see his openness. It didn’t occur to her that this could be a rejection until they had made their way back to the lodge and she was showering in her room. 

Had he been working out a way to let her down gently? Had he been shocked? Did he feel that he was obligated to her in some way? She began to catastrophize, she’d have to quit working with them, she should get ahead of this, tell him that it was unprofessional, give him an out. She became vaguely aware of drumming from the other side of the house, fast, manic drumming, getting even faster. Better still she could write him a note and get Veronica to drive her back to the city before he even noticed that she’d gone. Then she could ask Ricky to get another A&R on the job and she need never see him again. There was a crash, it sounded like the whole drum kit had been pushed down a hill. Then silence. She needed to talk to V. She shrugged on a robe and rushed to her bedroom door, throwing it open to find him standing there, looking distraught in sweatpants and nothing else. He was on her in a second, arms around her, walking her back into the room, kissing her neck, biting gently at her shoulder, pushing the robe open and running his hands over her breasts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is crazy. I don’t do this. Is it ok? Do you want this?” he whispered as they stepped towards the bed.

“So much, so much. Please,” she whined. He reached out a foot behind him and kicked the door closed. There was a slam that must have echoed through the house and he laid her backwards onto the bed, pulling open her robe and standing over her to stare down at her. “Oh I am in so much fucking trouble now. Fuck,” he whispered as he grabbed the waistband of his sweatpants and pushed them down. It wasn’t a slow seduction, they were way beyond that. He put a knee between her legs and rested his weight on one elbow while he kissed and sucked at her skin, neck, shoulder, breast, stomach, hips. His other hand stroked down her body, making her tremble and quiver and then, at last he touched her and she cried out. When she tried to reach out to stroke him, he grabbed her wrist and held it with the hand that was supporting him, above her head. As he did it he looked at her intensely, “Is it OK? Do you want this? You’re not scared?” And she found she did want it, wanted it very much and she was even more desperate than she had been before. 

“Yes, I want you to. I need it,” she sobbed and he pushed his hand against her, sliding a long finger inside her, making her arch her back and pant like a thing possessed. He used his hand on her, stroking her, touching her, making her cry out, forgetting that she was in Veronica’s house, next door to her friend’s bedroom. 

“Shhh. Quiet now or we’ll never live this down. Can you be quiet?” She nodded, her eyes wide. 

“Good girl. That’s a good girl. I’ve been wanting to do this since I met you, feeling like an animal,” he whispered and moved down to put his mouth on her. The sight of those dark curls, his blue eyes, watching her, the feeling of his tongue against her, his hand on her wrist, was too much. She was coming, waves of pleasure crashing over her, wiping out her self control, her very consciousness. From a long way away she heard herself calling out his name and then felt his hand over her mouth. Inexplicably it only heightened the sensation and she was sobbing and gasping, her whole body clenching and relaxing, rippling and shimmering. Eventually, when she could open her eyes again, he was resting on one elbow beside her, looking at her with affectionate amusement. “Well, that was pretty damn flattering,” he said, smugly.

“Yeah, you’re very sexy. More please,” she replied in a low voice, with a challenging look that was designed to provoke him to action. He was over her in a moment, reaching out to the nightstand where, without her even noticing, he’d put a condom. “I’m on birth control,” she whispered.

“And I’m risk averse,” he replied and tore open the foil. It took only a second before she felt him poised, teasing and she moved her hips against him. “Demanding much?” he murmured. “You’re sure?” She replied with a thrust of her hips and then he was moving inside her with a gasp that seemed to reverberate through her bones. She put a hand on his chest, feeling the thrumming of his heart, his warm breath at her shoulder, his body impossibly close. She heard that internal voice of hers mutter, ‘That’s it, you’re done, there will never be anyone else ever again.’ She hoped that was true. He kissed her and then trailed his tongue down her throat, cooling hot skin that felt like it would burn her up. Then he sucked her flesh against his teeth, leaving a mark. “Will you belong to me?” he whispered against her skin and she nodded her acknowledgment. His fingers were on her hips, holding her steady as he thrust into her again and again. She felt her belly begin to tighten but she never wanted the intimacy to end so she beat it back, looking at his tan shoulder above her, glancing down at his slim hips between her legs, twining her fingers through the softness of the waves of his hair, wherever she looked only increased her arousal. She brought her hand to her mouth and bit down to stave off the orgasm so that he would stay inside her but he dragged it away. “Let go, let it all go,” he muttered against her ear and she gave in and let herself collapse into a beautiful, swirling oblivion of sensation. She heard him curse and groan and felt him heavy against her, damp with sweat, breathing fast. It was hard to find her way back. When she did she stroked his hair with her fingertips, murmuring nonsense sounds under her breath and kissing his jaw, his throat, his shoulder. Soon he roused himself and lay beside her for a moment, staring at her.

“What?” she asked with a smile.

“I’m trying to work out how to stop everything, just press pause, never let anything change,” he said with a rueful expression, knowing it was a hopeless dream.

“Things can change and still be good,” she said, stroking her fingertips over the tattoo on his bicep. She had questions about that but they could wait.

“Rarely, in my experience,” he replied. “It’s hard to hold on.” He moved off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom, raising his voice a little to continue the thought. “I lost my family, Fred, I almost lost Archie. Sometimes I feel like I’m in that movie, The Italian Job, you know. At the end Michael Caine’s in a truck, half over the edge of the cliff, the gold’s going to slide out if he moves or the truck will fall and take him with it. All he can do is stay absolutely still or it all goes to shit.”

“Pretty hard to enjoy the loot when he’s paralysed by the thought of losing it,” she suggested and he grimaced as he came back into the bedroom.

“I know. And there are always so many factors to think about, so many things to watch out for. Shit, sorry. Little glimpse of my paranoia there. Not a good look, post coitally. Sorry. My head’s spinning.”

“Yeah, so much for slowing things down,” she giggled.

“I know. I thought I might explode with how much I wanted you. I tried to take it out on the drums but repressed sexual tension does nothing for one’s technique. I just thought, if the world ends today and I hadn’t at least tried to be with you I would be so goddamn mad at myself. And then I was outside your door.”

“There are things to work out for sure. But later. Let’s just enjoy it for a moment, can we?” He nodded and leaned in to kiss her again and she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him against her body, trying to reassure him that she was not sliding out of his reach anytime soon.

“Are we keeping this quiet? Going down separately?” she asked as they prepared to join the others for breakfast.

“We can try if you want but Archie has some type of instinct. I think he’ll be on to us. You go first.”

As she walked into the kitchen Veronica looked up from a pile of legal paperwork and an expression of surprised merriment bloomed on her face. She turned to Archie, “You were right Archiekins. The deal is done. I know the Cooper post-orgasmic glow. Someone has worked hard on that this morning.”

Archie grinned as Betty blushed and then Jughead was with her, placing a kiss on the back of her neck. “Let’s not embarrass Kevin you two,” he said, as Kevin appeared at the foot of the stairs.

“I cannot be embarrassed. You guys can hump each other like bunnies on the breakfast table for all I care. None of you are of the slightest possible interest to me. Let’s go for brunch.”

The weekend passed with a great deal of laughter, lots of music and ever more raucous meals. Sitting out in their lakeside glade together on Saturday afternoon Betty and Jug began to learn about each other’s lives. She told him that she thought he was too attractive for her and he gaped like a guppy at the idea. “But you’re so beautiful, I mean, I like lots of things about you besides that, but the first time I saw you I nearly fell over. You were so stunning. Like a goddess.”

“Have you been talking to V about me?” she challenged him but he denied the charge. When she talked about how suffocated she had felt as a child, she saw tears spring up in his eyes and she wiped them away with her thumb. “You feel everything so deeply. I guess that’s why you’re an artist,” she mused and he laughed.

“No, my skill is all technical. Archie’s the emotional one.” She stroked his hair and giggled softly.

“That’s just not true. You’ve got an idea of who you are that doesn’t fit you at all. If you’re such a cool customer why has Kevin got a bruised chin?”

“I got jealous. I thought he was with you. Or had been with you. I thought I was just a project. It hurt so I wanted someone else to hurt too. Ok, you’re right. I’m an emotional basket case just like Arch.”

“Maybe you closed it down so you could help him when he was so torn apart. But you’re allowed to feel too. Open up, let it out, take the risk.” She leaned in and kissed him, showing him how she was feeling and he soon showed her that it was entirely reciprocated. 

When they were all together she noticed Jughead’s watchfulness around Archie and Veronica. That night in his room she sat on his bed and asked him what he had been thinking. “I guess I just feel responsible for him. He had a tough time and he only broke up with Josie a few weeks ago. But she’s your friend so I guess she must be good people. You don’t think she’ll hurt him?”

“No. She’s soft on him already. She’s a chocolate lava cake. Hot and rich and gooey in the middle. He gets her completely. Did you see him letting her order for him at brunch? She's like you, a take charge kind of person. She loves a little submission.”

He looked at her intensely. “Is that a problem? With me I mean?”

“No. You know it isn’t. I just kind of wonder if you take too much responsibility. Maybe it would be useful to let other people shoulder some of it. Just sometimes.” He looked pretty sceptical and proceeded to demonstrate to her just how effective he was at taking charge. By the end of the weekend he had her pretty convinced.

On Sunday afternoon as Jughead and Archie loaded their van Betty sidled up to Kevin and pouted a little. “Yes Betty, you may keep the puppy and take it home with you. I’ll write a nice story about how clean and house broken he is and then Daddy Rick will let him sleep on your bed for always. Is that what you want?”

“Yes please Kev but don’t let’s start calling Rick Daddy. It just feels so terribly wrong,” her shudder seemed to transmit itself to Kevin and they were both helpless with giggles by the time Jughead came over to kiss her goodbye. 

Back in the city, real life kicked in. Ricky was mad that Betty hadn’t shown up to persuade Archie to hire a session guy to take Jughead’s place. He told her he was losing faith in her ability to deliver what was required. She tried to persuade him that Archie’s failure to hire made it only sensible to keep Jughead on. She explained that Kevin was reconsidering the article but Ricky was determined. He wasn’t going to have his scheme contradicted by a woman he had hired to make coffee only a few years before. “Betty, he’s a liability and if you can’t see that then you aren’t the A&R I thought you were,” he warned her ominously. She began to suspect that it wasn’t Jughead’s musical potential that was a problem as much as the fact that he would never allow Archie to be exploited and objectified to suit Ricky’s vision for him.

It would do no good to overplay her hand at this point. She needed a plan. She looked up innocently, “I completely see where you’re coming from Rick. The problem is that I think if you lose Jones you’ll lose Andrews too. Let me have a look at the contract. I’ll find a way through this. Ok?”

Ricky eyed her with mistrust but sent the contract through to her anyway. This seemed like a job for Ms Lodge so Betty grabbed her bag and made her way uptown to enlist some help. Veronica was busy but she said she would look over the contract and get back to Betty as soon as she could. With that errand completed she found herself at something of a loose end so she called up Jughead. There was a mischievous idea building in her mind. She wasn’t sure where it had come from and she was far from confident that she could pull it off but she thought maybe it was worth risking the experiment.

Jughead was in the studio changing drum heads while Archie played around with a melody for lyrics that Jug had written while they were upstate. Betty could hear the chords in the background. “You know what that needs don’t you?” she said.

“What maestro?” quipped Jug.

“Needs a sax. Definitely. I know a girl. Want me to call?”

“Fuck. You might actually be right. I believe I have her number. Anyway I’m delighted to hear from you but why did you call?”

“I have a couple of propositions for you. One is business, the other is indecent. Are you interested in either or both?”

“Well both sound fascinating. Can we go to pleasure first and tackle business later?” he chuckled.

“My place. Fifteen minutes. I’m texting the address. Hurry though, I might not be able to wait.”

“I’m out of the door already.”


	5. You Were Destined For Something Greater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So listen, Betty and Jug are starting to play about with restraints in this chapter. This is new for both of them, they aren't sure if it's something they're going to be into, so they haven't (yet) geeked out and researched their options by reading peer reviewed papers or gone to the local hypermarket of smut to fill a trolley with all manner of esoteric chandelier danglers. Will they? I leave that to your imagination. So yes, they should have established systems and safe words and yes, ribbon or soft restraints would be safer etc etc etc. But I wanted the smut to come from a psychological truth. Our girl is using her instincts, guessing a little, finding out what feels good. And, shocker, this is fiction with a guaranteed happy ending (!) but in real life -- be safe. Louder for the folks at the back? BE SAFE.

_How many drummer jokes are there?_  
_About a Zildjian_

Betty had wondered whether she would have the nerve to go through with it but, by the time she had selected her outfit and found the cardboard carton she needed in the back of her closet, she was feeling surprisingly confident. She’d never felt secure about her looks, despite Veronica’s insistence that she was attractive, but over the weekend something had changed. Jughead had responded to her in exactly the way she responded to him. She knew how her desire for him felt and to imagine him reciprocating that made her breathless. It was as if she could step outside her own perception and see herself through his eyes. What she saw made her happy. She pleased him and that was good enough. 

There was a buzz from the entry phone and she pushed the button to open the street door as soon as she heard his slightly breathless greeting. He’d rushed. When he knocked on the apartment door she opened it but took up a position behind it until he had come in. Then she stepped out, high heels clacking against the wooden floor of the hallway. His jaw fell open. It was a satisfying reaction. She had wondered if it was all a bit too obvious, the stockings especially but, despite his pretensions and his poetry, when push came to shove, he was a simple man. She let him rake his eyes up and down her, watched his sharp Adam’s apple bob as he tried to swallow. “Betty,” he said hoarsely, reaching for her. She stepped back and swatted his hand with hers, harder than was strictly necessary. His eyes widened. 

“No touching. Go in there. Take off your clothes.” He stared at her and stood exactly where he was. “Or you can go finish replacing your drum heads if you like. No harm done. This is what’s on the menu this afternoon but you're under no obligation to order.”

He swallowed again and stepped into her bedroom. She let him stew for five minutes, pouring herself a glass of wine and drinking it in three long swallows. She was nervous but the effect would be ruined if she let him see that. Then she clacked along the corridor in her heels and pushed open the door. He sat on the edge of the bed in his boxers, looking up at her nervously. “Oh Jughead. It was a simple instruction. What a shame you disobeyed.” She turned away from him, “Now what do we have in here?”

She opened the bureau drawer, looking back at him over her shoulder. “You remember that I was an officer of the law?”

He nodded. She was beginning to enjoy his mute, stunned looking confusion. She pulled the department issued handcuffs from the drawer and dangled them from one finger. “Fuuuck,” he muttered. “Weren’t you supposed to turn them in? Do you still have a badge and a gun somewhere?” He looked round a little nervously.

“I wanted a souvenir. Never liked the gun, came to feel pretty ashamed of the badge. So I stole these. What were they going to do? Fire me? Don’t worry I boiled them. No trace of blood or junkie left on them.” She held up the key and then sat next to him for a moment and let the mask slip a little. “So, I have this idea of something I’d like to try. If you’re not into it it’s fine. We can forget it. No pressure. You want to?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“That’s it. Nothing. Just go with it. See if we like it. Tell me if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m uncomfortable,” he gestured downwards. He did look like he was in something of a predicament. “But I guess I’m game.”

She stood again, resuming her persona. “Very well. Let’s see how obedient you can be. Watch.” She showed him as she unlocked the handcuffs, closed them and unlocked them again. “You only need to tell me to unlock them and it’s done. Understand?”

He nodded and she snapped one cuff around his slim wrist. “Scoot backwards and lie down. Hands above your head” He did as he was asked, getting the hang of acquiescence. She threaded the cuffs around two of the uprights of the iron bedstead and secured the other bracelet. She hadn’t anticipated that his shoulders would be pulled back so harshly and she grabbed a pillow to prop him a little to release the tension across his collarbones. Two sets would be better, or ropes, silky ropes would be good. She was surprised by her enthusiasm for the thought of complex knots against his smooth olive skin or of him tying them around her body. She stood back and looked at him, on her bed, watching her. It was an intoxicating moment, possibilities crowding to present themselves to her imagination. She ran her hand over one ankle, strong but narrow. She wanted him to see that he could trust her, that his powerlessness was a kind of fiction, that he was the epicentre of her focus. Slowly she traced her fingers up his leg, over the knee and up his thigh. He bucked his hips as she reached the edge of his boxers. “What a shame you didn’t take these off. I could have touched you now. I could have knelt here, between your legs and taken you in my mouth. I could have licked and sucked you. You might have liked that.”

“Please,” he growled. “Please do that.”

“Oh but all this material is in my way. Because you didn’t do as I asked you. Didn’t trust me. What a shame.”

“I do trust you. I do,” he whined as she stroked her hand over his belly, up to his chest.”

“Really? So you want me to make you naked?” She looked at him slyly under lowered lids, a smile twitching her lip.

“Fuck, yes.” He writhed a little against the restraint, apparently involuntarily, and she slipped her fingertips under the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down over his feet. Then she lowered herself over him, kissing the bones of his hips, listening to his soft gasps and curses as she moved ever nearer to where he wanted her. She kissed him first, finally taking him between her lips as he exhaled a long sigh that sounded like relief. She knew she could make him feel good like this and the freedom to take her time with him, to move at her own pace, seemed luxurious. When she had gone down on him at the Lodge she sensed he was rushing so that he could return the favour, not really giving himself over to the experience. Now he had no option but to let her dictate terms and the sounds he made reassured her that, so far at least, it was a success. Soon the combination of her hand and her mouth were making him pant and arch his back against the bed. “Betty, please, I’m going to…oh Christ, I can’t hold off.” She was surprised by the intensity of his orgasm and as she swallowed and looked up into his eyes, he seemed to share that feeling. “Wow,” he murmured, straining forward towards her. 

“Lie back. You did so well. Lie back. Let me help you some more.”

“I want to touch you though Betts. I want to make you feel good.” 

“Ok, but you don’t need your hands for that. You’re making me feel good right now. Do you need anything? Water?” He nodded and she reached for the glass on the nightstand, holding an arm behind his head to help him swallow as she stroked his hair. Then she stood back and unhooked her bra and stepped out of her underwear. “Stockings and heels. On or off?” She asked, glancing at him.

“I want to watch you take them off,” he murmured, a blush on his cheekbones. She obliged him, noticing with approval that by the time she was done he was half hard again. “Good recovery, stud,” she whispered in his ear, before she hitched her knee over him. She moved a little against him and he swore and clenched his eyes tight shut. 

“I have a condom if you want to use one,” she whispered and he looked into her eyes and shook his head and she sank onto him. It was a powerful thing to have him looking up at her as she moved on him. He couldn’t touch her and so he caressed her with his eyes, watching her as she experienced him. She found it harder to take her time now but she noticed the movements that made him moan and concentrated her efforts on those. And then he arched up into her, unable it seemed, to prevent the impulse. She worried that he would dislocate a shoulder which would have pretty devastating consequences for the tour. “Unlock?” She whispered and he nodded, speech seeming to evade him completely. She grabbed the key and leaned forward as he nipped and kissed her breasts. Within a moment he was free and his arms were around her and he was grasping at her hair to kiss her more emphatically, thrusting up into her and muttering that she was amazing and beautiful. She was clenching around him with seconds and he flipped them over and thrust into her hard and fast until he was falling apart too. 

Afterwards they lay spread-eagled side by side on the bed, stunned and silent. When he regained the power of speech he looked over at her. “So is that, like, your thing? The handcuffs and …?”

“No, not at all. Well -- it wasn’t. But …I thought it was kind of hot.”

“Yes, Christ, yes. Very hot.”

“I just figured you could stand a break from always being the one in charge. In bed, in the band, with Archie.”

“Look I appreciate the sentiment but if you could avoid mentioning Arch in this context that’d be great,” he smiled, deflecting.

“No, Jug. Don’t avoid the point. You take too much on. Let someone else take a share of the load. Let me help. No,” she laughed as he raised an eyebrow, “Not just like this. I mean let me help with everything. Let Archie take some responsibility. You treat him like a kid. He’s a grown man.”

“But he does more than his share out there on stage so I have to pull up the slack elsewhere. All that attention makes me anxious, like I’m some kid with a toy drum trying to tell people he’s John Bonham, playing up to it makes me want to vomit.”

“You’re a great drummer. That night at the Lodge was incredible. Let yourself be who you are. And let Archie be his own man.”

“Ok. I’ll think about it. And I really liked this, obviously, but I’d be sad if I never got to make you scream with my fingers again.”

“I’m just presenting options Jug. We can switch things up. Take turns.” He grinned at her as he propped himself above her on his elbows and kissed her hard. She hoped that she had made the larger point that he could relax sometimes and let other people take charge without everything falling apart. Maybe she ought to use the cuffs a few more times to really drive the message home. She wasn’t entirely opposed to that idea.

Eventually they admitted that they needed to get out of bed and proceed with real life. It was neither an easy decision nor one that proceeded without several notable instances of backsliding. Betty suggested to him that they needed a band meeting and that they could invite Veronica, JB and Kevin. In his hazy afterglow Jughead would have agreed if she had decided they needed to invite Jason Vorhees and Leatherface. While he showered she summoned the Scooby Gang to meet up at Archie and Jug’s airbnb that evening.

Later they sat in the living room of the fancy apartment while Archie picked out chords on the guitar as he did when he was going to be required to pay attention. Veronica was still in her office wear, her briefcase neatly on the floor beside her Louboutins, Archie’s eyes constantly flickering back to the slit in the thigh of her business skirt. JB wore ripped jeans and carried a clarinet case, having just finished her final class. Kevin was relaxed and expansive, pouring the Malbec that he’d brought but that only he and Veronica would drink, informing them he’d drafted the article but was stuck for a headline. Jug, handed round Cokes and beers and quipped that it felt like the final drawing room scene in an Agatha Christie novel but Betty replied that it was more like the opening of a heist movie.

“What are we stealing?” he asked, amused.

“I’m stealing you,” she replied with a grin.

“Oh, honey. You already got me. To do with exactly as you wish,” he lifted an eyebrow at her as he made that remark which elicited a deep blush from her and a theatrical retching noise from JB.

“No, I know that, dummy. I mean I am planning to steal Eldervair from Ricky. He wants you gone Jug. But we all know that won’t ever work. The magic’s in the mix. So V, can we do it? Can we get the guys out of the contract?”

“No.” It was a definitive answer that seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room. Veronica looked at them defiantly and shrugged. “What can I say? It’s a good contract. Lawyers don’t write these things on a napkin you know. We get paid well to make them unbreakable. This one is just that. If you break it you have to pay back the advance and a five hundred thousand dollar penalty. And any out of pocket expenses from the tour. You cannot legally break this contract. However...”

“However what V? Come on. You have an idea.” Betty was disappointed. She had imagined contracts were made to be broken.

“I may have an idea.” Veronica proceeded to explain how they could make the Rickmeister want very badly indeed not to have his contract enforced. It was a dramatic plan but Betty was pretty sure they could pull it off. The weak link would be Archie's terminal honesty. They’d need to keep as close to the truth as they could to get around that difficulty.

“This is all fascinating of course,” Kevin chimed in. “But I’m assuming you’d rather I didn’t expose your tricksy dealings in the music press. So why am I here?”

“You’re here because we love you Kev, and also because you write a mean character assassination,” grinned Betty. “As Jughead knows only too well.” 

“Oh, I see. You want me to write about how Ricky signed these plucky, naive young men and then tried to destroy their friendship with his Machiavellian schemes. That’s it right?” Kevin smiled.

JB looked around. “Ok this is all fascinating. But how am I supposed to help? Getaway driver?”

Her brother picked up her clarinet case and passed it to her. “Archie’s going to play you something and you’re going to audition. If you don’t totally suck and we can pull this scam off you might be in a band. If that’s what you want,” her brother smiled and JB squealed and threw her arms around him and Betty. “Hey, don’t hug me yet. You still might be too terrible. I’d just rather have you on the road with me where I can look out for you than gigging around Europe with reprobates and drug addicts.” JB was savvy enough to keep her opinions about his control freakery to herself. She’d take the win.

Archie said “Ok, this is a little number called ‘Get Famous’ which is about to be a smash hit.” He played her the melody he’d been working on when she called Jug earlier and JB picked it up in seconds. By the time they ordered the pizza, Eldervair was a three piece.

Two days later Betty was in the studio with Archie. She grabbed her phone and took a deep breath. It was time. “Ricky,” she cried out when her call was picked up, “I think I need you to come down here. We may have a problem.” 

Ricky let himself into the control room an hour later, clutching a frappuccino and perspiring pretty freely. “What the hell is the problem Betty? Archie said he hired a new drummer when I called him yesterday. We’re back on track.”

“Look at the drummer Rick.” Betty stepped away from the glass and Rick’s face fell as he saw the figure seated at the drum stool. He was sixty if he was a day and seemed to have been recently released from a sanatorium. He was thin and pale, dishevelled and drawn.

“Who the hell is that?” Rick screeched.

“Apparently he’s some old timey jazz drummer from back in the day. Archie ran into him in a bar and they got talking. They’re the best of pals now. They’ve started to write together.”

“Well he’ll have to go. He’s no use to us. We need someone who’ll excite the tweens, not some fossil.”

“Well you’ll struggle. Archie’s asked him to come on board and his new girlfriend’s a lawyer so she drew up a contract. Signed and sealed. If you want to fire this one it’s going to cost and he’d probably have a good claim under age discrimination law. He’s a really good drummer.”

“Christ what a nightmare,” groaned Rick, throwing himself into a chair.

“The other thing is that apparently when Archie and Jughead were starting out it was Jughead who came up with the name. They agreed that if they broke up “Eldervair” went with Jughead so Archie can’t use it. There’s a note of understanding apparently. You paid off Jughead but you didn't specify that he lost the claim to the band name. So you own “Andrews and Fossil” not Eldervair.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Ricky was intoning, rocking a little now.

“And then there’s the back catalogue. Jones says he plans to use the cash you paid him off with to enforce copyright on his songs. Basically if Archie performs them on the tour it’s gonna cost. I’ve spoken to a lawyer who thinks we might well have to settle. It’ll be expensive. I mean they could just do all the new stuff but Archie’s really getting into Wesley Willis and it’s showing a bit. Shall I get them to play you something?” Rick looked slightly broken but Betty was relentless so she pressed the comm button through to the studio and asked Archie to play Rick some of the new tracks.

As Rick listened first to a song about a frog, “Green frog, keen frog, scream frog, it’s a scheme frog,” and then to one about why Archie had disliked his high school Math class, his head seemed to sink lower and lower until he was almost lying on the floor. “This is a total disaster Betty. How have you let this happen?”

“Well Rick, I did say I thought we needed to keep Jones on board but you said that would be a bad idea. Without him I’m afraid you get this. I think the tour might be a problem. He’s talking about having this huge animatronic frog that vomits him onto the stage in a kind of slime capsule. Oh and look, this seems like a problem too.” Archie was sitting on a stool in the studio spooning melted Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food into his mouth with what looked like a soup ladle. “I’m not sure how long the abs are going to stand that sort of abuse.”

“Cooper this is your fault. You’re fired. Clear your desk today.” Rick shoved past her and stormed into the studio. He started yelling at Archie and trying to push his drummer pal off the stool. He was yelling that their contract was over, they no longer had a record company and, if he had any influence, they wouldn’t get another. Betty joined him and held out an envelope which, in his confusion, Rick took from her. “Rick, you need to stop manhandling my artists. There are security cameras so if you continue to assault my clients we will press charges.” He stared at her and then at the envelope in his hand. 

“What the actual fuck is going on Cooper? What’s this?”

“Those are the terms under which you can end this contract. I don’t work for you anymore so I’ve moved into management. These gentlemen are my first clients. You’re going to pay the out of pocket expenses for the tour, they’ll keep the advance, the only thing that’s been written under contract with you are the songs you just heard. They’re yours. Nothing else. Sign that and we’ll get out of here.”

The Rickmeister was a shadow of his former self. He took the pen that Betty proffered and signed away his rights to the artists formerly known as Eldervair before standing, trying to kick over the bass drum, putting his foot through the drum head, tripping and sprawling on the floor. Marty, Jughead’s favourite lighting tech and himself an ex-drummer, stood from behind the kit to help him up but he angrily shoved him away and limped out, in obvious discomfort. Once he’d gone they all collapsed on the control room couch in gales of laughter which was where Jughead found them ten minutes later, joining them from the coffee shop across the street where he had watched Ricky hailing a cab and disappearing out of their lives.

Betty went by the office on Friday, collected her fern and the gallery postcards with which her workspace had been adorned and left without a word to Rick. She clutched the plant tightly on the back of Jughead’s bike all the way over to a tiny side office in Veronica’s building where V had already installed a classy engraved steel plaque that read “Elizabeth Cooper, CEO Exile Records.” Betty’s eyes filled with tears as she looked at the sign and V threw her arms around her. “That’s the name, right? That’s what you decided?” 

Betty nodded. “There’s a sculpture. In Portugal. And it seems to fit.” 

Veronica wiped her eyes, “You’re going to be a huge success Betty. The first three months rent are paid. No, I refuse to be thanked. I’m being selfish. Archie needs you in his corner. Both of you.” 

Jughead promised to come by at six to pick her up despite her assurances that she had been making her own way to and from work for years. His reply was “Do as you’re told, woman,” which made V gasp in horror until she saw Betty’s smirk.

“Eww, this is like some terrible sex game isn’t it? Ohmigod, you’re into the kinky stuff. I’m so shocked.” As she walked away she whispered in Betty's ear “You’re going to tell me everything.”

Her first task as her own boss was to read the articles that Kevin had sent her that morning. She hoped that the Eldervair piece would give them strong sales for the tour, otherwise they would have a real cash flow problem and she had no capital reserves to absorb that. She needn't have worried. There was an article, for the print magazine, about the band, the headline was “Eldervair Are About To ‘Get Famous.’” He’d used the images from the terrible shoot but left out his wounds and he’d even managed to get JB over to the venue so there was a moody portrait of her too apparently playing the sax while standing on top of a wardrobe. He had written them up as the Next Big Thing and plugged both the forthcoming single and the tour in effusive terms. He was a good buddy. Then she clicked onto the article that she hadn’t been expecting so soon. The headline was “Management Reimagined” and in it he contrasted what he called outdated music industry manipulation of artists with a new type of record label management which actually considered the longevity and sustainability of their careers. Exile Records was cited as a new company which had this concern at the core of its values. She had just finished reading when Kevin knocked on the door. He saw that she was reading his words and threw himself into the only other chair in the office. “Well, what do you think? I’m afraid the label piece is online only. Stories about the industry don’t shift units but it might drive some clients your way, especially if they’ve been burned by Rick and his ilk. ”

“I think you’re a better friend than any of us deserve. These are so great. We'll always owe you."

"Just call your first born Kevin...or Caoimhe. Kevin's a weird name for a girl."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kevin mentions the name Caoimhe here. It’s a female version of his own name, generally pronounced Keevah.


	6. This Is What You Were Born To Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven’t already listened to the song that inspired this story I suggest you get it cued up now. Get Famous by The Mountain Goats. Then play it when we get to the end of the gig in Chicago, seriously. Go on....now....I’ll wait...done? Great. Thank me later.  
> Here are some of the lyrics.
> 
> You were born for these flashing lights  
> You were born for these endless nights  
> You always knew sooner or later  
> You were destined for something greater  
> You took notes on what you had to do  
> To get the piece of the pie that belonged to you  
> You've been waiting for this ever since you were young  
> Be careful not to choke on your tongue  
> Get famous  
> You should be famous  
> Go on and get famous  
> I want you to be famous  
> 

_How’s Eldervair like a unicorn?_  
_Horn at the front, asshole at the back. (JB Jones)_

_And the shit I produce is magical. (Jughead Jones)_

__

__

Two months later she lay in bed with Jughead in a hotel room in Chicago, tracing lazy circles on his shoulder and occasionally leaning over to kiss his neck. It was late in the morning but it’d been a long and tiring night, the gig, dinner afterwards, then an afterparty for just the two of them in this very room. They were in no hurry to get up. “Ju-uug?” she asked quietly.

“Wha-at?” he replied, mimicking her singsong inflection. 

“V and I were talking, you know... about relationships, girl talk.” He rolled over to look at her, a little anxiety behind the soft blue eyes.

“Shit what did you tell her? Not…” 

She laughed. “Nothing salacious. Certainly not, you know, our private stuff. Although she told me some things about Archie that were actually alarming. Physiologically.”

“Arghhh no. Please. I can’t hear any of that. Eughh no.”

“So anyway. To the point. She said that thing that folks always say about relationships. You know ‘Oh it’s all about compromise, give and take,’ that stuff.” He smirked. “No, not sexually. Well not just sexually anyway. But I got worried.”

He sat up now, concerned, the sheet falling low on his hips so that she had to drag her eyes up to meet his or the conversation would not be able to proceed. “Have I not been compromising? What did I miss?” he said, reaching out to take her hand.

“No, that’s it. I think that’s it. I was worried because I’m not aware of compromising. I just do whatever I want to do. Am I being really selfish? Are you always having to put me first?”

“How can you say that after what happened in this bed about an hour ago? You made me so happy. And I definitely came first.”

“And I came twice.” He looked alarmed again. “Oh no shit, sorry, three times. I forgot the bathroom one. That was actually the best one. So we’re ok? I don’t need to compromise?”

“We’re more than ok. Really. But, good talk. Now about the bathroom one, should we repeat that so you don’t forget it again?”

The truism that being in love, making a relationship work, involved compromise wasn’t her experience at all. It was as if she had been compromising all her life until she met Jughead and then his love assured her that her whole self was valid, worthy, accepted. At first she hadn’t even known all of herself. It was like when her dad had taken her to the pool once when Polly was home with strep throat. He bought her a swim ring and blew it up. It wasn’t until it began to inflate that she realised it wasn’t just a ring. It was a flamingo. She wore the flamingo ring around her waist half the summer, inside the house, at the store, playing in the yard, until her mother had confiscated it and let the air out of it to pack it away, saying it was a nuisance and made her look crazy. She’d been five years old. She thought that, until she’d been loved by him, she'd been uninflated like that swim ring, packed down flat not knowing what she could be, not really understanding herself. His regard for her had allowed her to reveal her true nature, all the different aspects of herself, the nuisance-y, crazy, flamingo-ness of her.

At the very start of the tour they’d played a gig in Denver. She’d never been before but had always wanted to go. When the bus pulled into the venue a few hours before the sound check she’d been grabbing her bag and scrambling for the door before they’d even come to a stop. He’d put a hand on her arm and looked up at her, “What’s the rush?” he’d asked.

“The Clyfford Still Gallery. If I hurry I can get there and back before sound check,” she’d gabbled. 

He grabbed his jacket and hopped off the bus with her. “If it matters to you, I want to see it,” he’d shrugged and went along. As they made their way to the gallery she’d explained why she was so eager to get there. "So it’s a gallery that has paintings by this guy, Still. They hardly ever lend them so it's really rare to be able to see them except in reproductions. He became kind of a recluse who wouldn’t sell his work or exhibit so, basically, if you want to see it, you have to come to Denver. I'm a fan so…” 

It felt strange to share something that she had always done on her own. Going to galleries had always been a private passion. Now explaining to him about Still's contempt for sellouts and panderers made her even more excited to see the pictures and, when he listened carefully as she explained something of the artist's technique, his attention made her value both the art and her companion still more. 

As they left the gallery she thanked him for coming with her. "No, Betty, thank you for letting me in. I mean I saw all the art books at your apartment but I didn't really know how much it meant to you. Do you paint?" 

She smiled. "No, I’m not creative at all. I’m an organiser, an administrator." 

"Ever tried?” he asked.

She laughed as she told him about the time when, as a teenager, she had begged her mother for art supplies. Her mom hadn’t wanted her to take art classes in school because she was supposed to concentrate on her academics but Betty thought, if she had canvas and paint, she could work on art at home. Finally her mother relented and bought her an expensive watercolour set, tiny slabs of pigment in a smooth wooden case, little pads of watercolour paper, fine brushes. She had been terrible at it. All of her attempts were nasty, warped wet messes. She soon abandoned the pastime. He had a pained expression as she told the story. “What?” she asked. She’d expected him to laugh at how hopeless she had been.

“It’s just...Christ, had your mom actually met you? You’re so not a watercolour kind of girl. You need thick oil paint, great big canvases, huge decorator’s brushes. You like Still and Pollock and, what are those big blue and red ones? That you have the prints of?”

“Rothko.”

“Yeah, that’s you. Not dumb little paintings of some girl with a big hat in a garden. You’re much sexier than that. Rawer.”

Now she thought about it she realised that her mother hadn’t wanted big, splashy indecorous paintings being made or seen in her seemly, tasteful and calm home. Betty was always a little too messy and raw for Elm Street so she had compromised, let the air out, packed herself away quietly between layers of tissue paper. Now she was breaking out at long last.

After that day in Denver she would often open her eyes in the morning and find a tube of cadmium yellow oil paint on a hotel nightstand or napthol red tucked inside her running shoe. She’d go into the kitchen on the tour bus and find he’d left her favourite mug by the primed coffee machine, a new paintbrush standing to attention inside it. He never nagged her about it, just provided the means by which she could express that part of herself if she chose. Gradually she began to paint a little, abstracts that she hid in the bottom of her case, until she painted him a canvas for his birthday, a gift to thank him for giving her permission to be what she always had been. He cried a little when he unwrapped it and she told him how she loved him and he showed her it was mutual.

She thought that maybe she did something similar for him. She hoped so. She’d been surprised to find herself living on a tour bus and in hotels with a drummer, spending her evenings backstage watching him sweat on stage and then making him sweat afterwards backstage. She hadn’t expected to be a rock chick, hanging out with the band like Penny Lane but fate had its own agenda and she felt pretty lucky. The first inkling she had that he was beginning to relax his iron grip on every detail had come one evening, an hour before curtain, when one of the front of house staff had asked him a question about merch. He hadn't known she was nearby but she heard him say, “Hey, good question. Look l'm sort of busy. Could you find Betty and ask her? Thanks fella!” Gradually he'd leave more up to her, let her make arrangements for accommodation, book the local acts to go on as their support, trust her to send the rider and not ask if she'd done it.

As she took her shower in the Chicago hotel she was thinking about the gig the night before, about how the concerts had changed since the start of the tour. Last night had been at Thalia Hall. Jug had started doing his daily Tai Chi practice an hour or so before doors with the roadies and the crew if they were interested. It turned out that nearly all of them were and it had an unbelievable impact on the injury rate. Other bands started doing it when they heard it stopped guys tearing their backs to pieces hefting amps. As he finished up the session the support band were tuning up to go on. She’d hired different local bands for each venue, giving them a chance. Archie and JB were jamming in one of the rehearsal rooms backstage, everyone getting into their personal performance space.

She’d been soaking up the atmosphere as the crowd moved into the auditorium and the support act ran onto the stage. Eight hundred tickets sold out in under an hour. Fuck you Ricky, she’d thought. She had done her part in advance, venues booked, roadies well compensated and insured, publicity arranged, posters and flyers printed and pasted. Now they were selling out the venues, so she could roll back on the advertising expenditure. The guys didn’t want to play arenas even though they would soon be able to fill them, they liked the old theatres, enjoyed not having to use screens unless they were playing festivals. Ricky would never have got that. He would have been pushing them up the greasy pole until they lost traction and slid all the way down, broken and back where they started, she’d seen it too many times.

The local support band were wrapping it up to sporadic whoops and good natured applause and she patted them on their backs as they came off stage. “Great work guys, well done. You killed it. Call me when you've written an album. We'll talk.” They grinned and shook her hand, grateful for the opportunity.

She watched as Archie ran onto the stage, throwing his arms in the air, ramping up the excitement in the space. Jughead trotted out to the drum stool, a little more lively than usual, the new freedom he was finding especially obvious on stage. He’d begun to wear clothes that weren't entirely black. The huge collection of band t-shirts began to reveal itself. They were the legacy of a father who’d never remembered to bring his kid a gift when he came home so he simply pulled off the free roadie's shirt over his head, balled it up, careless of the sweat and grease it was stained with, and threw it the kid’s way. Now the shirts lived again. Finally JB appeared in fishnet leggings and a tartan micro kilt, poked her tongue out at her brother and high-fived Archie. Her sax was round her neck, her clarinet case at the side of the stage for when she needed to make a swap. 

The lights came up, including Archie’s follow spot and, an innovation, the spot that illuminated the drum kit. He’d been reluctant but her loving insistence had won the day. He didn’t believe that anyone in the crowd wanted to look at him so she explained there was nothing arrogant about letting the crowd actually see what they had paid to witness. “What if you’re somebody’s Chad Wackerman? They need to see you. Otherwise they'll just download the song and not bother with the show. And that will not pay the bills. Not at all!” The final clincher was when she whispered in his ear "And I want to watch you. It makes me so excited. I want to climb over the kit and lick you."

He’d gulped and yelled "Marty, I'm gonna need a spot on me tonight. I'm trying something new." 

That night they’d started with a few of the older numbers that they had arranged to include JB. The sound was rich and complex and the crowd began yelling along to the lyrics. Archie liked to use a call and response technique sometimes and this audience had loved it, pogoing and spiralling in the baroque space. Jug was in a good mood and when Archie flung the call to him he pulled down his mike and sang rather than just giving a drum fill as he often did to divert attention. More and more often he could be persuaded to sing a line or two when Archie pointed to him. He had a great voice, much better than he thought, a deep baritone that worked well alongside Archie's lighter tenor. He didn't have great control yet but that was a matter of practice. The crowd was surprised and then they went crazy. At the end of his lines he looked down at his drum heads but she saw the smirk, he enjoyed it. 

By the time they got to the closing number, their biggest hit to date, the song that Jug had written on that weekend upstate, they were all flying on adrenaline. Archie looked across at Jug who centred the mike to blast out the opening line, looking at his pal, “You were born for these flashing lights,” maintaining the beat without hesitation.

Archie looked over at him and pointed, “You were born for these endless nights.”

Jughead saluted and blasted the lines, “You always knew sooner or later/ You were destined for something greater.”

Archie picked up the line, “You took notes took on what you had to do/ To get the piece of the pie that belonged to you.”

Jug grinned, beginning to relax and enjoy himself, “You've been waiting for this ever since you were young/ Be careful not to choke on your tongue.”

JB heralded the chorus with a sax solo and then Jughead and Archie shared the lyrics. Jug had written it when he thought he’d have to leave the band so it was poignant with love and concern for each other. “Get famous” he sang, Archie responding with “You should be famous.” Jug took the next line “Go on and get famous,” and Archie responded with “I want you to be famous.”

The next verse was Betty’s favourite. Jug had the angry lines at the start of the verse, “Cold, grey world, all these obedient sheep/They act like they know, but they're all sound asleep/ Waiting for something to wake up to /Some nice juicy bone to chew,” which was so true to his distrust of the crowds, his fear of giving too much of himself away. Archie’s lines showed how he brought his pal around from a funk, indulging his pretentiousness, “You arrive on the scene like a message from God/Listen to the people applaud,” ever the showman he raised an arm and the crowd lost their minds right on cue, “This is what you were born to do/ Wesley Willis taught me how to write about you.” After they sang the chorus they gave JB an opportunity to demonstrate her skills and then Jug delivered his last line, “Light up the sky like a comet,” before Archie brought the verse home, “Make yourself want to vomit/ Shine like a cursed star/ Show everybody exactly who you are.” The end of the line cued up Jug’s drum solo where he gave himself permission to go a little crazy, letting the crowd glimpse something of what he had showed them at Veronica’s a few weeks before.

It always made her eyes fill with tears to watch them perform this song together, their absolute trust and love for each other was the baseline of their existence, a firm foundation that let them explore the world together. They loved each other unconditionally and the audiences always saw it and responded to it. The audience screaming out the chorus and making it true as they sang it. By the end of the number the crowd were deafening and they ran two or three extra choruses before Jug threw his sticks out into the auditorium and they all waved and ran off stage. The crowd stomped and whistled and yelled, shouted out titles of songs, screamed “More” until they trooped back out and played something slower, moodier, that brought the energy level down enough that it began to seem possible that they might be able to leave the stage before midnight. It was expertly done, like a gradual exhalation, like the soft kisses that follow the quivering orgasm. Betty watched, loving all three of them, until she remembered that there were things to be done and she ran back to the dressing rooms to get dry towels and clean t shirts ready, along with gallons of water and the snacks that comprised the rider that always made venue management laugh. “No booze, twenty burgers and a turkey sandwich? Is this a rider for a band or a boy scout troop?” they asked, more often than was funny. 

Later that night, Jug, relaxed from enormous quantities of processed meat products and losing pints of sweat on the stage, had reached out for her hand and stared into her eyes. “You know we’d be nothing without you right? You know you’re in the band?”

“Ah I’m not a creative like you guys. But I like being able to make my contribution.”

“I think you’re creative,” he said, tracing his finger over her palm and looking at her through that ungovernable hank of dark hair. “I think you have an unexpectedly rich imagination, Officer Betty.”

“I do Mr Jones. A dark and mysterious imagination. And I have a hotel room in which we can explore it. Shall we?”

It seemed to Betty that relationships have beats, like a heart or the time signature of a drum rhythm. The beats of theirs had started with the gig at Arlene’s Grocery when she’d first seen him play, then watching him wash glasses while he told her about his drum heroes, the weekend at the Lodge, the Clyfford Still Gallery, the Thalia in Chicago when she saw, at last, the performer he was born to be. 

After the tour was finally done they’d flown back to New York, feeling a little shell shocked. The album had sold better than they could have dreamed, there were fans waiting outside the studio they used. Betty even got papped in the bodega down the street. Jug was anxious. “I don’t want to live in a goldfish bowl Betty. Can’t we get out of town? Let’s buy a place, upstate a little. We could have a home office, you could run the label from there, travel down for meetings if you need to. We could build a studio if we had a little land, record your artists at our home as well as work on the album. Archie and I could be your producers if you want. Space, a little privacy. Yeah?”

It sounded like heaven. She nodded and kissed him and he started to call realtors. He seemed strangely obsessed with light, he kept insisting that they only wanted to look at places with space and lots of flooding natural daylight. It took a couple of months but finally they found their home. A newish house, maple and glass everywhere, a few acres of woodland and a river. There was a home office in the grounds from which she would be able to run the label, an old barn he could turn into a studio and a huge room upstairs in the main house with windows on either side, flooded with light from east and west. The album sales gave them the freedom to live how they chose. On the day they moved in, a van pulled up the drive and two guys got out carrying enormous blank canvases. Jug loped over and directed them to the room upstairs. “Hi, those are for Betty’s studio,” and directed them to the room with the windows, winking at her as she stood open mouthed in the driveway. A beat in the relationship, a thud in her heart as she understood that he would always cherish the most vulnerable parts of her, the parts that she might neglect or ignore.

Archie had his own room at their place and split his time between them and Veronica’s apartment in the city. Jughead and Archie wrote songs, laughed and made huge sandwiches at all hours of the day and night. When Archie was in the city Jughead kept trying to write chapter four of his novel. She painted, interviewed artists who wanted to join the label and invited young musicians to stay with them, learn the business from her and her partner. It was everything that she could have wanted. Then Veronica called, early one Saturday morning, laughing and crying, to tell her that Archie had proposed the night before. She turned and shook Jughead awake and, holding her hand over the phone hissed, “Archie and V are getting married.”

“Christ, at last. He’s been carrying that goddamn ring about like fucking Gollum.” Betty looked at him agape. He’d known and not mentioned it? After she had agreed to be maid of honour and pretended to consider the practicalities of a bachelorette party on the island of Capri she hung up the phone and punched Jughead hard in the bicep. “What the fuck Jug? Why didn’t you tell me? Did you think I’d expect a proposal too?”

“Well,to be honest, that didn’t occur to me. Obviously, if you want to get married, let’s go get married. I just didn’t think you would like everyone looking at you while you dressed up as a marshmallow but, hell if it floats your boat, I am at your service. I'll even wear a suit.”

“No, I don’t want to dress up as a marshmallow. You’re absolutely right. But why didn’t you say something?”

“For the same reason that you don’t tell me all Veronica’s confidences. It wasn’t my secret. And it would put you in a terrible position. When she rang to give you the news you would have had to pretend to be surprised; all the time he was fucking about, getting up the nerve, you would have been wondering why he hadn’t done it. You would’ve been stressed out.”

“Oh fuck you Jug.”

“Why? What did I do? Are you sure you don’t want a proposal? Shall I do it properly?” He struggled to free his legs from the twisted sheets and went down on one knee. It was too comical not to laugh.

“You aren’t meant to do it naked Jug. Fuck you, because it makes me mad when you’ve thought everything through and made a sensible decision without me needing to do anything. If you could just fuck up sometimes that’d be great. Thanks.”

As the wedding approached Betty found herself feeling a little insecure. Jughead never gave her reason to doubt him and nothing had changed but it seemed that, although she didn’t want the wedding, she did want something. She had no idea what that something was. She felt as if she were on holiday somewhere glorious but that there was something that needed to be done, that she should be doing instead of simply entertaining herself. He knew her better than she knew herself, as always. After they had watched Mr and Mrs Andrews take their first dance in a huge marquee on their lawn, after Jughead had given a best man’s speech that had made the crowd roar with laughter and weep a little at his sentimentality, after the newlyweds had been driven away to their honeymoon destination, they climbed wearily upstairs to their own bed. As she put her birth control pill between her lips, he put a hand on her arm and whispered, “Do you still want to take it?” She stared at him and realised that she didn’t.

“We should have a big serious conversation about this shouldn’t we?” she said with a smile.

“If you want. I love you. I want to make babies with you and live with you forever in this house. If you want that, why are we still talking?”

They didn’t talk for long. The next beat began very soon after that conversation. She felt it in her belly. Jughead felt this one too. He swore it was a Kansas City Shuffle and he hummed the tune and tapped out the beat on her stomach. The beat’s name was Caoimhe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a couple of notes to provide references:  
> The sculpture in Portugal is The Exile by António Soares dos Reis. Wow, just wow.  
> The black canvases which aren't black at all are the "black" or "ultimate" paintings that Ad Reinhardt claimed to be the "last paintings" that anyone could paint.  
> Clyfford Still made huge abstract canvases in these amazing, natural but dramatic colours. They always strike me as melodic somehow.  
> I don't know anything about drumming but I know a guy who does. I took his favs and watched some great drummers. I also really enjoyed videos by a drum teacher called Garey Williams who reacts to drum solos. I adore an enthusiast!  
> Wesley Willis was a musician and street artist who lived with paranoid schizophrenia. His lyrics are funny and bizarre and dirty and childlike. Have a listen to "The Chicken Cow." Archie's Frog Song is an homage to the oeuvre.  
> Most of the band names mentioned are stolen from Mountain Goats lyrics.


End file.
